


Complicated

by fredbassett



Series: It's Complicated [1]
Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:20:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29030061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: Against his better judgement, Alex agrees to do a job for MI6. A nice, simple job that doesn’t include power-crazed billionaires. Just righting a wrong that affects tens of thousands of teenagers. What could possibly go wrong? Then things get complicated. They always do where Alex is concerned.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Series: It's Complicated [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2129721
Comments: 93
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

Doorbells ringing at 3am were never good news. 

Alex Rider held equally strong views on phone calls at 7.30am on a Thursday, or any other day for that matter.

He rolled over in bed, trying to untangle himself from a duvet that had apparently been trying to strangle him in his sleep. Fortunately, he’d long moved on from the phase of his life when death threats from inanimate household objects had been an almost everyday occurrence. Now all he had to contend with was failure to submit an undergraduate essay on time, but with the start of term still nearly two months away, and the chaos caused by the Plague Year, he hadn’t even started thinking about that sort of thing yet. 

He didn’t recognise the caller’s number but answered it anyway, just in case. Some old habits died hard. “No, I haven’t had an accident that wasn’t my fault. They’re always my fault, now fuck off.”

“Hello, Alex.” The slight hesitancy in the voice might have meant the speaker was apologetic about the call but it might just as easily have been faked. Alex had learned a long time ago not to underestimate Mrs Jones.

“Hello, Tulip.” He’d never used her first name before, but now seemed as good a time as any to start. If it annoyed her, she’d never let it show, but it gave him a sense of satisfaction.

“Are you by any chance free for a coffee this morning?”

“No, I’m washing my hair.”

“I didn’t realise it had got long enough to take all morning. I’m sure it suits you, though.” She paused for what Alex presumed was intended as suitably dramatic effect then continued before he had chance to terminate the call. “Check the news. I’m sure that a student about to enter their third year in the School of Geographical Sciences at the University of Bristol will take a keen interest in today’s headlines. Text me if you’d like a beverage of your choosing at a place of your choosing, Alex. I’m free until noon.”

To Alex’s mild irritation, Mrs Jones ended the call before he had a chance to cut her off. He clearly needed more practice on a games console against Tom. Determined not to jump to do MI6’s bidding, Alex turned over and went back to sleep for an hour, just because he could. Eventually, rolled out of bed for a shower and by the time he padded naked back into the bedroom, rubbing a towel over his wet hair, three texts had arrived.

The first was from Tom and just read: _Tory fuckers couldnt rite a fuckin algorithm to save their fuckin lives_

The second was from Jake, one of his flatmates in Bristol. _Bastards. Wont get to zoom u until much later. Clearing’s gonna be dire_

The third was from Dani, a friend on his course. _Petra’s lost her place at Cardiff. Downgraded from A* to D. BASTARDS!_ Petra was Dani’s younger sister, who’d been hoping to study medicine at Cardiff.

Alex made his way into the kitchen and turned on the TV while he waited for the kettle to boil. It didn’t take long to work out that there had been a monumental clusterfuck with the A Level results. The pundits had widely predicted it, so had most people working in the education sector, but even so, the sheer scale of the disaster had still caught almost everyone on the hop. 

Jake, doing a PhD in chemistry, who Alex had met through the climbing club, was earning a bit of extra cash by helping staff the phone lines for clearing at their uni and wouldn’t be having a good day, if the news was anything to go by. There were going to be a hell of a lot of desperate kids and equally desperate parents out there today.

He perched on a stool at the counter and started to send some texts back.

To Tom: _What did you expect? Bloody algrothm’s about as world-beating as their track and sodding trace_

To Jake: _Best of luck. Let me know when you’re free_

To Dani : _Fuck! Tell her I’m sorry. Can she appeal?_

The fourth text took longer simply because it went against every promise he’d made to himself when he’d finally walked away from his previous life. _My usual Costa. 11.30_

He drank two strong coffees, threw on a pair of loose shorts, a dilapidated teeshirt, his trainers and went out for a run, carrying nothing more than his phone, his debit card, and an emergency £50 in various notes and coins (some habits died even harder, like a lot of the people Alex had run up against in the past). In deference to his fellow human beings, he wore a triple layered mask decorated with smiling sloths. People didn’t need him potentially panting germs into the air.

He pounded a circuit that took him first south of the river and around Battersea Park and then up to Hyde Park. As he ran. Alex did his best to force out of his head all thoughts of what his life had been like when he’d been at the beck and call of the Special Ops division of MI6 and every other bloody agency who’d wanted to take advantage of his youth and skills. He’d got better at mindfulness over the years, but still found it easier to clear his head if he pushed himself to his physical limits. 

At home in London pushing himself hard mainly consisted of running. In Bristol, he now had a range of activities open to him, including climbing, diving and caving, something he’d never even considered until he’d found himself signing up at the Welcome Fair on the Downs, sucked in by promises of something totally different – as well as mud and beer. Lots of mud and prodigious amounts of beer. He hadn’t been disappointed on any count. It was nice to be able to get pissed occasionally and not to have to worry that it might impair his performance in combat.

He ran on autopilot, keeping to the quieter areas where possible, checking for threats, which now consisted of nothing more than the need to stay more than two metres away from pedestrians whilst avoiding cars and their inattentive drivers and making sure that he didn’t dehydrate in the unusually hot weather. Occasionally, he wondered if the current climate change crisis was part of some mad scientist’s equally mad plan, then he’d dismissed the idea as someone else’s problem and simply avoided the activists in Trafalgar Square, even though he’d been tempted to point out the amount of plastic waste some of them had been carelessly discarding. All he wanted to do now was get a degree in a subject he enjoyed and then find work that didn’t involve guns, knives, explosives and death, sudden or premeditated.

At 11.30, he arrived outside his usual Costa, unsurprised to find that Mrs Jones was already settled at the table furthest from the door with the best view of the whole café. She was wearing a plain navy mask, but he would have recognised her anywhere, and not just from the faint scent of peppermints that clung to her like perfume. The tables were spaced out at intervals of more than two metres but even so, there were only two other people sitting inside, and they were well out of the way by the front window. Customers weren’t exactly flocking back to coffee shops.

Alex sauntered in, sweating like a pig in muck, but with a steady pulse and breathing as slowly as a professional assassin. He flopped down in an armchair opposite Mrs Jones, noting that she had more lines on her face than he remembered and that she had started colouring her hair. “Iced skinny latte, please.”

“Your hair looks nice,” she said, before walking to the counter and placing the order.

When the coffee arrived, Alex pulled his sloth mask off. “What have the A Level results got to do with me?”

“We need someone who can pass for an 18-year-old.”

“I’m 21. You didn’t send me a birthday card, but I’m sure you have the date on file somewhere.”

“You can still pass for 18.”

“I’m flattered, but I’m retired.”

“Doesn’t righting a wrong that will otherwise blight the lives of a very large number of students hold any appeal?”

Alex sighed theatrically. “Tell me what you want. Then I’ll say no.”

“So you’ll at least think about it?”

“Did I say that? Don’t push your luck, Tulip.”

“Only my friends call me that.”

Alex grinned. “Trying to put me in my place won’t work. You’re better than that – or you always used to be. And don’t tempt me to say that you haven’t got any friends, that’d be rude and I’m a nicely brought up boy.”

“The government’s much-vaunted algorithm is a spectacular failure. The man behind it has a massive chip on his shoulder about failing to get onto the course of his choice at the university he’d set his heart on and has been planning his revenge for years. Covid-19 and the cancellation of exams provided the perfect opportunity.”

“So deal with him.”

“Not as easy as it sounds. The PM won’t hear a word against him.”

“So plant some evidence and discredit him.”

“We don’t need to do anything so crude. He thinks he’s invulnerable. There will be more than enough evidence on his computer to damn him. Even the PM won’t be able to ignore that, especially if he’s told the press are already onto the story.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “God, you people are so bloody predictable. What’s it got to do with M16 anyway? This is a domestic matter.”

Mrs Jones waved a hand dismissively. “Internal politics. If this fiasco continues, the PM will lose the student vote. I’ve been instructed to assist.”

“What makes you think I voted Conservative?”

“I know you didn’t. You despise them and everything they stand for, but you have friends who have been affected by this, and you have principles. That has always been your weakness, Alex.”

“So BoJo the Clown changes his mind. That’s all he has to do. What’s the big deal?”

“The PM can’t be seen to bow to pressure.”

“The PM has the intellectual capacity of a single cell organism and the morals of a rabid ferret.”

It was Mrs Jones’ turn to sigh. “Call me if you change your mind, Alex. You’re the best person for the job. In fact, you’re the only person for the job. There’ll be a demonstration outside Number 10 tomorrow at 12 noon. The PM will be advised to meet the organisers. If you’re willing to help, we’ll need you at the office for a briefing by 6am. If you’re not interested, enjoy your nice life. Others won’t have the opportunities you’ve had, but of course that’s not your problem. I’ll set a diary reminder to send you a birthday card in future.”

Mrs Jones smiled her blandest smile and left Alex alone to drink his iced latte.

**** 

Alex stared at himself in the bathroom mirror.

The face that stared back at him looked like its owner wanted to punch something or someone very hard. 

He was doing this. He was really fucking doing this. Walking back into the sodding lions’ den, but at least this time he was going to do it on his own terms, and if Mrs Tulip Jones didn’t like it, he’d tell her exactly where to stick her job. He wasn’t a kid any more. He knew perfectly well what they’d done to him, and he was still living with the scars. He’d be living with the scars for the rest of his fucking life. And sometimes they were hard to explain away, particularly the bullet wounds and whip scars.

Sun bleached blond hair was now dark brown and instead of brushing his shoulders in best beach bum fashion, it was now short and spikey. That was something else he’d hold against MI6. He was satisfied that the make-up he’d applied to make his face look fatter wasn’t obvious, but to draw attention away from his cheeks he’d added just a hint of guy-liner under his dyed eyelashes. He’d gone into missions looking like himself way too often. That wasn’t a mistake he was going to make this time. There was nothing he could do to change the shape of his narrow lips, but if he smiled more, he could at least make the hardness less noticeable and he intended to stay masked as much as possible. He had two in his pocket. One with brightly coloured skulls on a black background, the other sporting a grinning raccoon’s mouth that went rather well with the hint of eyeliner. He’d been vaguely tempted to go for the full goth look but had dialled it back.

The ripped black jeans, looser than the ones he usually wore, had plenty of pockets and were comfortable enough for him to run in. An equally loose-fitting Uriah Heap teeshirt completed the student look he’d been aiming for. Ian hadn’t liked the group, but Alex had found several of their CDs amongst his collection, and this teeshirt stuffed at the back of Ian’s wardrobe so he’d often wondered if his father had been the one to like them. He’d never know now. Anyone who might have been able to tell him was dead.

The Special Ops division of MI6 had moved offices since Alex’s day, but it hadn’t been hard to find their new premises. The place looked dingy as hell, nowhere near as flash as their original place in the bank building. Things must have gone downhill after Blunt retired. There didn’t seem to be a doorbell to ring, so Alex took a run at the wall, grabbed the top of the brickwork, swung one leg up and vaulted over the razor wire to land lightly on his feet in the yard, waving cheerfully at the CCTV camera.

Mrs Jones was waiting for him in front of an unmarked door. “An hour early, Alex. You’re keen.”

“You’ll need to change the photos on the fake legend you’ve knocked up. I thought I’d make things easy for you and turn up early. You’ve been here all night anyway.”

The slight flash of irritation in her eyes was quickly suppressed and replaced by a tired smile. “What are the chances of peace breaking out between us?”

“I’ll tell you when this is over.”

“Alex!” 

“Hello, Smithers.” Alex waved at him instead of a handshake. The quartermaster had been the person Alex had always liked the best. His gadgets had kept him alive on numerous occasions. “I thought you’d told this lot where to go?”

“I did, but then Mrs Jones told me you’d agreed to do them a favour, dear boy. The new look suits you,” Smithers added, a broad smile on his face. “Come on, let’s get the photos sorted. I didn’t bother setting up anything in advance. Your legend’s simple enough and we can adapt it to suit your new look.”

“Boy’s toys?”

“Have I ever let you down?” Smithers smirked, then added, “Probably best if you don’t answer that.”

An hour later, Alex was in possession of a PASS-accredited photo ID card in the name of Jason Bainbridge. He quickly memorised his new date of birth. A debit card, credit card, several store cards, card receipts and other miscellaneous bits of crap packed a dilapidated fabric wallet. They took longer to lodge in his brain, but it seemed that his old skills hadn’t deserted him. Alex didn’t bother to disguise a grin of satisfaction. 

While he’d been working, Smithers had been laying out a series of items on the table. Alex recognised the lead lined pencil case designed to fool a scanner into thinking that it only held a few harmless pens and pencils. Instead, it contained a USB stick that would bypass any computer security and download a hard drive in under 60 seconds, a fake library card that could cheat its way past any internal electronic locks, and a set of ultra-hard plastic lock picks hidden inside what looked like a black marker pen. And one of Alex’s favourites. The calculator that could knock out any CCTV cameras within 50 metres.

A pair of dilapidated black trainers contained a variety of items that would mainly come into play if Alex was daft enough to get himself caught. In his experience, in any other circumstances taking your trainers off was rarely an option.

“Anything else you’d like?”

“Glock 17 and three spare mags?”

“No can do. But your friend Wolf and K Unit happen to be on standby in in Regent’s Park.”

Alex grinned. “I’d pay good money to see Wolf storm Number 10. Can’t you just send him instead?”

“The Powers That Be thought that approach lacked subtlety.” Smithers took a box off a cluttered shelf and handed Alex a brand-new iPhone. “All the numbers you’re likely to need are under your contacts, as well as a lot of others. They’ll all be monitored. There’s a full text and WhatsApp history, as well as a well-stocked photo gallery. If you take a few selfies, the phone will automatically shuffle them back into the photo history, adding a few filters and different backgrounds.”

“Neat.” Alex had always liked Smithers’ gadgets. They’d saved his life far more often than anyone else in MI6 had ever done. “I’ll try to bring them all back in one piece.”

On the walk to the bus stop, Alex snapped a few selfies, amusing himself with a variety of daft faces, sticking his tongue out at MI6 and giving them the finger. He was carrying a placard that said: STUFF YOUR ALGORITHM! in roughly painted red letters. He’d been told that the placard would be recognised and that he’d be one of the students invited inside to talk to the PM.

The demonstration outside Downing Street was a milling mass of students waving placards and banners. Most were masked, and the few that weren’t drew disapproving looks. Alex worked his way through the crowd, holding his own placard up and waving it around. There was an undercurrent of anger but no violence. The protestors were mostly in their late teens, but a few had come with parents who shouted as loudly as their offspring and considerably more vehemently.

After three hours, there was still no sign of anyone from Downing Street coming out to engage with the protestors, despite what Mrs Jones had promised. A rumour was spreading through the crowd that the PM and his pet advisor weren’t even in the building.

Half an hour later, Alex took a selfie, with his tongue sticking out again, and WhatsApeed it to one of the numbers in his contacts list with the message: _bored now_.

The smiley face he got in return did nothing for his irritation.

After another 15 minutes of pointless placard waving, Alex tossed his to a kid in immaculate Goth get up who had been hoping to study astrophysics at Oxford. He wished her luck and wandered off. 

He needed to work on Plan B. 

A series of tube and bus rides took him to a relentlessly suburban street in north London lined with tall London plane trees busily shedding their silver-grey bark. Alex found the right house with no difficulty and walked confidently up the front path, mostly shielded from the footpath by a tall hedge. The calculator knocked out the CCTV and Smithers’ lock picks made short work of the not overly impressive door locks, enabling Alex to step into a tall ceilinged spacious hall.

The house was quiet. 

Too quiet. 

He found the PM’s advisor unconscious on the kitchen floor, his hands cable tied behind his back, his ankles equally securely fastened with the two sets of ties connected together by a longer one, bending the man’s body back in a painful arc. A strip of grey duct tape ensured that even when he woke up, calling for help wouldn’t be an option. 

The thick carpet in the hall and stairs ensured Alex was able to make his way silently to the first floor. The job had suddenly got more complicated. He should have known better than to accept any assurances from MI6 at face value. 

At the top of the stairs, the door to a shelf-lined study was wide open and Alex could see a laptop open on a surprisingly tidy antique wooden desk. The main question was whether whoever had knocked out and tied up its owner was still in the house.

The answer came in the form of lightning-fast strike at Alex’s head as he stepped cautiously into the room. He ducked to one side, blocking the blow while pivoting on one leg and striking for his opponent’s knee. 

Slow. Too fucking slow and he knew it immediately. 

His opponent twisted away in one fluid movement.

Alex hadn’t been expecting bloody close quarter combat. 

He should have fucking known better than to get involved with MI6 again.


	2. Chapter 2

After the initial shock of an unexpected attack, Alex slipped all too easily back into an old routine, allowing his reactions to take over. 

He’d kept in shape in retirement, working out with three different martial arts societies at uni, not favouring any particular technique. Professor Yermalov had beaten any tendency towards predictability out of his students and Alex knew better than to play by any artificial rules. The only rule at Malagosto had been do unto others before they did unto you. And do it harder.

His attacker, a dark-haired man of medium height, was wearing a pair of black jeans and a turtle-necked sweater. Heavy stubble showed around the sides of a plain black mask. The man moved with the natural grace of an apex predator. 

Alex had a nasty feeling he was outclassed. The man was an experienced operative, that much was obvious. Maybe three years ago Alex might have stood a chance, but now it was a question not of whether he could win but simply how quickly he would lose. This was going to be embarrassing. He just hoped it wasn’t going to prove fatal. But giving up had never been his style. He’d just have to improvise …

Alex grabbed a heavy book off a shelf and threw it at the man’s head. To his surprise, as a rapid follow up, he landed a decent strike on his throat, exposed for the barest moment as the man twisted away from the missile. A cough burst from the other man and Alex followed up his temporary advantage with a fast blow to his solar plexus, fingered outstretched, ready to dig in. Despite the coughing, the man countered Alex’s strike, knocking his hand aside.

Alex jumped back, narrowly dodging an attempt to sweep his legs from under him and retaliated with a well-placed kick to his opponent’s ribs and this time the coughing let him past the man’s guard. He felt at least one rib break.

Another hacking cough handed him a further advantage and he landed a hard kick to his opponent’s right knee, then Alex’s luck promptly ran out. Despite his injuries, the man moved with startling speed, closing the distance between them as steely fingers gripped Alex’s wrist and twisted. Alex knew he was seconds and scant inches away from a broken arm. He turned into the man’s body rather than trying to break the hold and bit down hard on his upper arm, teeth gripping even through the material of the raccoon mask that covered his face.

A sound that might almost have been a laugh escaped from behind the black mark.

“Biting? Is that really the best you can do?” 

The hold on Alex’s wrist released abruptly and he staggered backwards, his brain struggling to process the information it had just received.

“You’re dead.” As comments went, it probably wasn’t his most sassy, but in his defence, the man he’d just been fighting had died in his arms seven years ago.

“And you’re retired,” Yassen Gregorovitch said, not bothering to hide his amusement. “Or you’re meant to be. So what are you doing here?”

“You died.” Alex knew he probably sounded like a petulant teenager but didn’t give a flying fuck.

“Yes. Three times. Twice on the way to hospital and once on the operating table.”

“Does that mean you get extra birthdays?”

“Not as far as I know, but by all means send me a card or three.”

“Care of MI6 or Scorpia?”

“Neither. Not any more. I eventually reached an accommodation with MI6 and you kindly dealt with Scorpia.” Yassen waved a hand at the laptop. “Be my guest. I imagine we’re here for the same thing, even though you did ignore my question.” 

Alex wasn’t about to kick a gift horse in the teeth, especially not as that gift horse had been one of the world’s foremost assassins until he’d been sacked by his employer, who’d used a bullet to the chest rather than the more conventional P45. A bullet that had been meant for Alex.

His emotions swirling like a vortex, Alex stuck the memory stick Smithers had given him into the laptop and let it do its work. “I presume you’ve already got what you wanted.”

Yassen coughed again, hard, and Alex noticed sweat beading on his forehead. “I’ll take my turn after you.”

“Kind of you.”

Yassen’s blue eyes glittered like shards of ice. “You obviously haven’t forgotten all Yermalov’s lessons.”

“I was too slow.” Alex counted off one minute in his head then took out the memory stick and stepped aside. “Over to you.”

Yassen plugged in a slender black pen drive, amusement clearly written on his impassive face that Alex remembered all too well.

“You sent me to Scorpia.”

“You needed to learn how to survive, before Blunt and Jones got you killed.”

“You said you loved my father.”

“I did.”

“You said you loved me.”

“I thought I was dying.” Yassen coughed behind the black mask, turning his head aside as his shoulders shook and his chest heaved.

Alex sighed. “You’ve got covid, haven’t you?”

“Probably,” Yassen acknowledged.

“And we’ve just had close contact.”

“My apologies.”

“You could at least make a fucking effort to sound sincere. Come on, we need to get out of here.”

“We?”

“We,” Alex said firmly. “You owe me some answers.”

Yassen stepped away from the desk, staggering slightly as his right knee buckled. A hiss of pain from behind the concealing mask told Alex that his foot strikes had done more damage than he’d given them credit for.

“Did I dislocate it?”

“Possibly.” Yassen bent down and probed his knee through the denim of his jeans. He frowned and pressed his fingers hard into his own flesh. A slight popping sound indicated that the kneecap had just been pushed back into its proper place. The ribs wouldn’t be so easily dealt with.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Can you walk on it?”

Yassen limped towards the door.

“I’ll take that as a yes, as well. I presume you’ve got a car nearby?”

“No.”

“Then we’d better steal one. You’re not going to get far coughing and limping like that. Couldn’t you just have turned in a sick note?”

“This was meant to be a simple job, and it would have been if you hadn’t turned up in a scrappy mood. Why are MI6 interested in our friend downstairs?”

“Internal politics. Why are you interested?”

“I’m not. My employers are, although I think on this occasion, our interests are aligned.”

Alex took the stairs two at a time and started to rifle through the unconscious security guard’s pockets. He quickly fished out an electronic key fob. 

“Come on.”

Before they left the building, Alex checked that the two unconscious men were safely in the recovery position and breathing steadily. Yassen watched him, his slight air of amusement punctuated by another series of heavy coughs. Their transport turned out to be a black BMW parked close to the house. Alex slipped behind the wheel. He’d been taught to drive as soon as his feet could reach the pedals but had only passed his test a year ago. Students weren’t encouraged to have cars at university, but as soon as he’d moved out of halls of residence, he’d taken his test and bought his first car. 

Yassen was silent on the drive across London, leaving Alex to concentrate on the traffic. When they reached central London, he parked the car on a residential street just around the corner from the National Army Museum, commenting, “Mrs Jones can sort this one out.” He pulled the iPhone out of his pocket and called Smithers.

“Successful?” Smithers sounded amused. 

Alex was beginning to think that keeping people entertained had become his new role in life. 

“Yes. Send someone round to collect what you want and the rest of your kit. I’ll keep the lockpicks, though, they’re better than my old ones.”

“I gather you met an old friend.”

Alex sighed. “I presume you heard everything we said through the phone.”

“Naturally. Give Mr Gregorovich my kind regards. I’ll send a large packet of paracetamol and some cough syrup with the courier. I presume you’ll both be self-isolating now. Do let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Smithers. Tell Mrs Jones that being left alone wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Good luck with that,” Yassen murmured as Alex finished the call.

“They’ve not come near me for three years,” Alex said. “I made it pretty plain they’d be wasting their time.” The irony of his words wasn’t wasted on him. “Yeah, whatever. I’ve got friends who’ve been affected by this crap. I couldn’t sit on my arse and do nothing.”

“You don’t need to justify yourself to me.” A violent cough twisted Yassen’s features into a grimace and he leaned against the railings outside a house, his chest heaving.

“How long have you been like this?” Alex demanded.

“The cough started yesterday.”

“If you were planning to fly anywhere, you can think again.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“And if you’re given the bloody thing to me, I won’t be impressed.”

“I’m aware of that, too.”

Alex stopped outside the white-painted house on a quiet, anonymous street in Chelsea. Even though he’d spent most of the past two years in Bristol, the house still felt like home to him, “You can have Ian’s bedroom. Or would that just be too weird?”

Yassen quirked his thin lips into what might have passed for a smile on anyone else. “I think we’re well beyond weird now.”

Alex opened the front door and waved Yassen inside. “The bedroom is upstairs, first door on the left. There’s an ensuite bathroom. I’ll get something to strap your knee up.”

Yessen set one foot on the staircase then turned to Alex, his face serious. “I can find a hotel. There’s no need for this.”

“You can’t go two minutes without coughing. Your chances of finding a hotel room can probably be measured on the fingers of one foot. And I meant it when I said you owe me some answers.”

Yassen didn’t bother to argue. His progress up the stairs was painfully slow, making Alex almost regret the dislocated knee and the damaged ribs, but he’d spent too long in a dirty business to develop scruples now.

Leaving his unexpected houseguest to his own devices, Alex went through to the kitchen and flipped the switch on the kettle. He settled on a Hello Kitty! mug for Yassen, in tasteful shades of bright pink, and proceeded to prepare the sovereign remedy for all ills: a hot whisky, liberally laced with sugar, honey and lemon juice.

Smithers’ courier arrived just as the kettle boiled. Alec had already tossed the USB stick and the other gadgets – apart from the lockpicks – into a large plastic bag. He handed it over in return for four exceptionally large boxes of paracetamol, a large bottle of expensive-looking whisky, a litre of vodka, a bag of lemons and three jars of honey. 

On this occasion, MI6 – or Smithers – certainly seemed to have thought of everything.

***** 

Yassen was almost overwhelmingly tempted to just kick his shoes off, lie down on the bed and fall asleep, but before allowing himself that luxury, he needed to shower and check exactly how much damage John Rider’s – Hunter’s – son had managed to inflict on him.

Another cough racked his body as his lungs tried to claw their way out of his throat. Yassen leaned against the bedroom wall, waiting for the spasms to subside. As Alex had observed, h should never have gone ahead with the job in his condition, but currying favour with Putin’s administration was always useful, and they paid well. Very well. 

The Russian government couldn’t afford Britain’s current impressively inept government to lose too much favour, so forcing a U-turn was the most logical step. However, they should have expected the intelligence agencies to be tasked with the same aim, but despite the clown occupying Number 10 dancing to Russia’s tune without even realising it, inter-agency co-operation was at an all time low, and Yassn’s paymasters hadn’t expected MI6 to take a hand in matters. 

The winner had been Yassen’s bank balance. The money would have been transferred to one of his many bank accounts as soon as the device in his pocket had uploaded the data from the hard disk he’d already tampered with before Alex took his turn with the laptop. Those transfers would have been completed before he’d even got into the car they’d borrowed.

Manoeuvring himself onto a chair in the bedroom, Yassen was able to remove his shoes and socks without inflicting too much pain on himself. The rest of his clothes were easier to deal with. He limped into the white tiled bathroom and examined himself in the mirror. His face was unusually pallid under the dark stubble, the scar on his neck standing out in stark contrast. His eyes were dark-rimmed and dull with pain.

He was certain he had two broken ribs. Alex’s second foot strike had sliced through his guard like a hot knife through butter thanks to reactions dulled by the virus and the coughing. This was the first time in his life - to the best of his recollection - that Yassen had ever been ill and he had underestimated the toll it would take on him. The injection his father had given him had spared him the colds, coughs and influenza that troubled most people but now he ached all over, particularly in his joints, and had a splitting headache on top of the pain in his chest and in his knee.

The bathroom cabinet was devoid of pain relief. Instead, it held disposable razors, an unopened packet of toothbrushes, two different types of toothpaste, mint-flavoured mouthwash, soap, shampoo, eucalyptus-scented shower gel and assorted other toiletries. He wondered if the very out of date and unopened packet of condoms and tube of lubricant tucked at the back of the top shelf belonged Alex’s late uncle. There had never been any indication that Ian Rider liked men, but perhaps his tastes had run to similar activities with women. It was hardly unknown.

Shrugging off thoughts of Ian Rider’s sex life, Yassen limped over to the shower and turned the water temperature up high, hoping the heat would dispel the shivering from the wretched virus. Yassen washed quickly, then stepped out, grateful for the thick, warm towel hanging on the wall heater.

As he rubbed the towel over his short hair, a voice from outside the open doorway said, “Hot toddy and some paracetamol and codeine in the bedroom, and I’ve got you a knee support.”

Yassen’s thanks were curtailed by another bout of coughing. Unselfconscious where nakedness was concerned, he simply leaned against the wall and waited for the painful spasms to cease, before carefully hanging up the towel and limping back to the bed.

A steaming mug of hot whisky on the bedside table was as fragrant as the heaven he didn’t believe in. He dry-swallowed the capsules and took a mouthful of the hot toddy. It tasted as good as it smelt, a decent malt heavily laced with honey, sugar and fresh lemon juice. The sudden rush of warmth pushed back the ache in his bones and the pain in his chest and leg, but when Yassen bent forwards to fasten the neoprene support around his knee, his chest protested, and another bout of coughing made sweat break out on his forehead.

“The good news is that coughing might stop you getting a chest infection from the broken ribs,” Alex said with irritating cheerfulness.

“How comforting,” Yassen murmured.

“Stretch your leg out.”

Yassen did as he was told. The light touch of Alex’s fingers on his bare leg sent an unaccustomed frisson of something undefinable along his nerve endings and he had to force himself not to pull away as the young man wrapped a neoprene support around his knee, pulling the soft Velcro straps just tight enough to provide the extra help he needed.

“Right. Bed,” Alex declared. “When you cough, hold a pillow to your ribs.”

Yassen was tempted to say, _Yes, mother_ , instead he simply commented, “I have had broken ribs before.”

“But you’ve not had Covid-19 at the same time before. And enjoy that whisky while you can, your sense of taste will probably be gone by tomorrow.”

Yassen gave in to the temptation to roll his eyes. All that did was provoke a flash of amusement in Alex’s expressive brown eyes.

“Do you want something to eat?”

Yassen shook his head, then promptly regretted the movement as pain flared in his chest. A moment later, that pain was kicked aside by a worse one as yet another heavy cough shook his shoulders and left him gasping for breath, clutching the pillow that Alex had shoved into his hands.

When the coughing fit finally subsided, Yassen drank the hot whisky, mentally thanking both Alex and Smithers. Then he remembered his manners and said aloud, “Thank you.” 

If they were going to be incarcerated together for the next fortnight or more, it might pay to be polite.

From the amused look on his host’s face, he guessed that Alex had correctly divined his thought processes. 

Eventually, aided by the pain relief, Yassen finally drifted off into an uneasy sleep, his last conscious thought being to wonder why the hell he felt so at ease in the company of a young man whose uncle he’d murdered. A young man he barely knew.

Even propped upright on a bank of soft pillows, Yassen wasn’t able to stay asleep for long. A scant two hours later, he’d thrown off the light duvet as his temperature started to soar. His throat was already raw from coughing and the pain in his chest was agonising. Alex had been right. The combination of Covid-19 and broken ribs was something that Dr Three would have looked on with a smile of approval. 

If this was what being ill felt like, Yassen was glad he’d reached the age of 41 without having experienced anything like this before. He just hoped it wasn’t going to set a precedent. Even reaching for the glass of water Alex had left for him on the bedside table was enough to send pain shooting through his torso and provoke more coughing. The water did little to soothe his aching throat but Yassen knew he had to remain hydrated. The only problem with that, though, was the old adage that what goes in must come out and an hour later, he knew he was going to have to make his way into the bathroom for a piss or risk wetting the bed the next time his coughing got out of control.

He carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand, favouring his good knee. Getting upright was a struggle and staying there lasted all of 30 seconds before more coughing effectively kicked his legs from under him, dropping him on his arse on the bed as neatly as if he’d been hamstrung in combat. Yassen bit back a groan of frustration and tried again. On his second attempt, he managed three wavering steps before he had to stop and wrap his arms protectively around his chest, trying to hold back the cough.

“Need some help?” Alex said from the open doorway, making sure to keep his distance until Yassen was fully aware of his presence.

“I can manage.” Yassen stubbornly limped another six steps ignoring his own nakedness and Alex’s appraising eyes. The next coughing fit almost bent him double and for a moment, Yassen thought he was about to spew the water he’d drunk onto the bedroom carpet.

“For fuck’s sake, stop being such a stubborn bastard,” Alex muttered. “Let me help. I haven’t got a carpet cleaner and I don’t want to have to try to get your piss or puke out of it by hand, and it’ll be weeks before I can get a cleaner in.”

Yassen didn’t have the breath to argue. Even drawing air into his lungs was getting progressively more difficult. He just wanted to piss and get horizontal again, preferably back in bed, but if not, the bathroom floor would be an acceptable substitute. A heartbeat later, Alex was at his side and a strong arm was around his waist, holding him upright. With help, Yassen was able to make it to the toilet. Alex stood behind him, his arms looped around his waist while Yassen directed his cock at the bowl and released a stream of piss, desperately hoping he could hold off coughing long enough to empty his bladder.

When he’d finished, he managed to wash his hands and still aided by Alex, limp back to the bed. Alex quickly shook the pillows up and helped him settle back against them. Yassen murmured his thanks and closed his eyes, trying to use meditation techniques to override the headache that was dulling his mind and adding to the long list of symptoms he was now experiencing.

The mattress dipped slightly as Alex sat on the edge of the bed. “You really do feel like shit, don’t you?”

“Your powers of observation do you credit.”

Alex’s soft chuckle was at least some concession to the pain in his head. “And you’re not used to being ill, are you? Jack always said I was a crappy patient, too. Do you fancy some chicken soup?”

Yassen opened his eyes and glared.

“There’s nothing wrong with Heinz chicken soup out of a tin.”

Yassen considered rolling his eyes but couldn’t muster the energy.

“I’ll make you some soup. You probably won’t be able to taste it anyway, so it won’t matter that it’s out of a tin.”

“Your bedside manner needs some refinement.”

When Alex came back, he was carrying a bowl of soup in one hand and a washing up bowl in the other.

He was right. Yassen could barely taste the soup, but he knew it wasn’t wise to go without food for prolonged periods and by his reckoning, it was over 12 hours since he’d last eaten. When he’d finally finished the bland, viscous magnolia-coloured liquid, he cast a quizzical look at the washing up bowl Alex had set near at hand on the bedside table.

“You can be sick in it, piss in it, or both. It’s the bowl Jack always used to bring me when I was ill.” 

“Family heirloom?”

“Something like that. Don’t worry, it lives in a cupboard in the utility room and doesn’t get used for washing up.”

“Are you always this annoying?”

Alex grinned. “Only when I make a special effort. If you need a crap, let me know. I’ve got some standards where the bowl is concerned.”

“I’ll remember that.” Yassen felt another coughing fit coming on and grabbed the spare pillow, cradling it to his chest while a grinning Alex refilled his water glass, left four more tablets by the bed and told him not to take them for another hour.

Yassen dutifully nodded, then went back to the serious business of trying to get enough air into his lungs.


	3. Chapter 3

Alex lay awake in his own bed, listening to the sound of Yassen Gregorovich coughing his guts up in the bed of the man he’d murdered. With a sick sensation in his stomach, Alex wondered if he’d ever be able to leave his old life behind.

Yassen’s reappearance had rocked him more than he’d cared to admit. He’d been certain the man had died in his arms, but at that stage in his life, Alex hadn’t been so well versed in the brutal reality of death in all its many guises. Now, he might have checked more carefully but then as a terrified 14-year-old in the wreckage of Air Force One, he’d been certain that Yassen had died. The declaration of love had been unexpected and downright weird, but Alex had tried not to think too much about that in the intervening years. It had made more sense when he’d learned that his father had been Yassen’s mentor, but it had still be unexpected and weird. But for years he’d wished he’d had the chance to ask all the questions he’d never felt able to ask Ian.

He still wanted to ask those questions, which is why he’d ended up with his uncle’s killer coughing and spluttering in the spare bedroom.

By 4am, Alex had managed nothing more than an uneasy catnap, punctuated by yet more coughs from the spare bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, he rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and went downstairs to put the kettle on. Plying Yassen with more whisky would probably be medically unsound, but the man was due for more painkillers. Some of the mint tea he kept for Jack’s visits would probably mix well with honey and lemon. 

Balancing that and a coffee for himself, he rapped loudly on the partially open door.

Yassen mumbled something unintelligible that might have been come in, but which could just as easily have been fuck off.

Sweat glistened on the contract killer’s face in the dim light of the bedside lamp. He was propped up on the pillows and still had one clutched to his chest. The washing up bowl was beside him on the bed – unused. 

Alex set the drinks down on the bedside table and went into the bathroom to run a face flannel under the cold tap. The glare Yassen directed at him as he sat on the bed and reached out to mop the sweat from his forehead was half-hearted at best and he allowed Alex to wipe the cool cloth over his hot face.

Alex held out the painkillers. “Open wide.”

The look he got would have frozen hell, but Yassen obediently opened his mouth and swallowed the two capsules.

“Apologies for disturbing your sleep,” he croaked, with a pronounced resemblance to something usually found in a pond.

“I’ve had quieter houseguests. I made you some mint tea. It might help your throat.”

As Yassen sipped the tea, Alex pointedly didn’t make any remark on the tremor in the long-fingered hands. Yassen equally pointedly ignored Alex ignoring the tremor. Alex counted their mutual pointed ignoring as a score draw.

Eventually, Yassen set the empty mug down. “Thank you. That was good.” His voice sounded marginally less like a colony of bullfrogs had taken up residence in his vocal cords. Alex awarded himself additional points for his ability to improvise where covid-related hot drinks were concerned.

“Could you taste it?”

“Mint, honey and lemon.”

“Taste or smell?”

“Both.”

“I’ll make you another in a couple of hours. Do you need a piss?”

Yassen started to shake his head then sighed. “Yes. But I have no intention of using your family heirloom for that purpose.”

Alex laid the back of his fingers on Yassen’s forehead. “You’ve got a hell of a temperature. I’ll run you a cool shower and you can kill two birds with one stone and take a piss in there.”

Yassen grimaced. “Your student flat must be delightful.”

“Mr Fussy Pants.” Alex sauntered into the bathroom, set the shower to lukewarm, and then did his best to get Yassen vertical. With his arms around the man’s naked – and rather sweaty – waist, Alex supported his weight as much as he could as Yassen made his way slowly into the shower. “Can you stand up unsupported?”

A violent cough provided all the answer he needed. With a resigned eyeroll, Alex pushed his sweatpants down and kicked them off, standing behind Yassen, equally naked and equally unselfconscious, and carefully manoeuvred them both into the shower. As the cool water cascaded over their bodies, Yassen gave up the attempt to maintain control over his bladder and simply let the water swirl the piss around their feet and then down the drain. Alex noted from the colour that at least he’d managed to keep Yassen suitably hydrated.

“Stop marking my piss out of ten.”

“Six. Keep drinking the water. I’ll expect a seven next time, but I’m still not holding your dick for you.”

“And plastering yours up against my arse is less problematic?”

Alex reached for the shower gel and squeezed a dollop into Yassen’s hand. “Yes. Now wash your own cock and balls while I get the sweat out of your hair.”

Yassen half-laughed, half-coughed, but did as he’d been instructed, while Alex tried hard not to watch. Yassen’s uncircumcised cock was as well-proportioned as the rest of his lithe body. Alex knew the man was probably just on the wrong side of 40 but would have no difficulty in passing himself off as anything from his early to mid-thirties. The numerous scars on his smoothly muscled body told their own story, but there was one in particular that Alex had always been curious about …

He trailed fingers slick with citrus shower gel along the thin scar on the side of Yassen’s neck and felt the man tense at the touch. “How did you get this?”

In the silence that greeted his words, Alex went back to running his hand over Yassen’s short hair, kneading his scalp with his fingers. Yassen coughed hard, doubling over as he fought to stay on his feet. Alex tightened his grip on the slender waist.

When the wheezing subsided, to Alex’s surprise Yassen said, “Your father saved a life and took a life with one bullet.”

Alex tensed and fought the urge to pull away.

“Do not ask a question if you do not want to hear the answer.”

Alex squirted more gel into Yassen’s hand. “Armpits.”

Yassen complied.

“What happened?”

“Jungle. Black widow spider on my neck. Hunter – your father – had a split second to make a decision. He took the shot.”

“You lived. Someone else died.”

“Don’t waste your pity. If anyone deserved death, he did.”

Alex grabbed the smaller shower head and used it to wash the gel from Yassen’s hair and body. “Have you read The Lord of the Rings?”

“No.”

“‘Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends,’” Alex quoted Gandalf’s words from memory. Although Blunt and Jones were unlikely to believe him, those words were one of the reasons he’d finally walked away from MI6.”

“I kill because I’m paid to,” Yassen said. “I leave the judgments to others. Your father taught me that lesson – and others.”

Alex abruptly turned off the water and reached out for a towel. Without speaking, he quickly towelled the water from Yassen’s body, trying hard to ignore the lean lines of a body honed by long hours of relentless combat practice, before he swiped the damp towel over his own limbs then helped Yassen back to bed, the short walk punctuated by two severe coughing fits.

With Yassen propped up again on newly plumped up pillows, Alex reunited himself with his sweatpants and settled down in the armchair in the corner of the room. He desperately wanted to keep asking questions, but even his insatiable curiosity about his father – Hunter – had to take a backseat to Yassen’s now drastically reduced lung capacity and the pain from his broken ribs. And he wasn’t sure he was quite ready to hear more about what his father had taught Yassen while he was undercover with Scorpia.

He sat for ten minutes, listening to Yassen’s laboured breathing. The virus was progressing at an alarming rate. “Can you manage to get some sleep?”

“Unlikely.”

“Then I’ll read to you.”

Yassen’s long eyelashes fluttered open. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Alex retrieved the book he wanted from his bedroom and settled back down in the armchair, propping his feet up on the bed. He opened the well-thumbed pages of a book he’d first read as an eight-year-old. “‘In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit …’”

Yassen coughed and wheezed through the first three chapters of Bilbo Baggins’ adventures. By the time Bilbo and the dwarves had left the Last Homely House behind, Yassen had drifted into an uneasy sleep, still clutching the pillow like a favourite toy. Alex closed the book and padded silently out of the room. A cold coke slaked his thirst and a couple of bacon rolls stopped his stomach rumbling. Armed with a mug of coffee, he wandered back to his bedroom and sprawled out with his iPad, scanning the news sites for any mentions of his activities the previous day.

The press was whipping itself up into a frenzy, not quite sure which story to run with.

Headlines that screamed **U-TURN ON LEVEL RESULTS** alternated with **PM’S ADVISOR RESIGNS IN CHILD PORN SCANDAL**

Alex turned on the BBC news channel as his phone bleeped with an incoming message.

_Dude wot you been up to?_

He grinned, and WhatsApped Tom back. _Retired mate._

A moment later, a gif of a dog rolling around on the floor laughing its arse off pinged onto his screen.

From what Alec learned while watching the news and chatting with his friends by WhatsApp, it looked very much like two birds had been taken out with one well aimed RPG. His guess was that the compromising images had been on the flash drive that Yassen had stuck in the laptop, but he didn’t entirely rule out MI6’s hand in that, either. On this occasion, it looked very much like Yassen had been telling the truth when he said that MI6’s interests aligned with Russia’s.

Even the PM hadn’t been able to hang onto his favourite teddy bear after the story had been leaked simultaneously by someone to every police force in the country as well as all major news outlets. Breaking covid guidelines was survivable. Kiddie porn wasn’t. 

_Just like Blake’s 7!_ Tom gloated. _Sweet man really sweet. best way to discredit anyone_

Alex WhatsApped Smithers’ number. _Us or them?_

_How’s the patient?_

_Coughing. And you didn’t answer the question._

_Official Secrets, dear boy. You know the drill. Can I get you anything?_

_Earplugs?_

Smithers replied with a smiley face.

Alex settled down to dick around on the internet and enjoy the news reports. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep, his tablet still in his hands.

Three hours later, the sound of coughing from the spare room told Alex that his houseguest was awake again. Feeling muzzy headed from a sleep that was simultaneously not enough and too much, he levered himself off the bed, glanced at the 15 messages he’d missed from Tom, Jake, Dani and a couple of other friends, and went off to make another mint tea for Yassen and a coffee for himself.

The doorbell buzzed and a slim package dropped onto the mat. Alex couldn’t remember ordering anything from Amazon …

He ripped open the padded envelope. Twenty pairs of soft yellow foam earplugs.

_Thanks Smithers_

_You’re welcome, dear boy._

When he delivered the tea, Yassen looked up at him blearily under long eyelashes that would have been the envy of most of Alex’s female friends – and quite a few of his male ones as well. 

Alex set the drinks down and held his iPad up, flipping through a selection of headlines. “Your lot or mine?”

“As I said, their interests were aligned for once.”

“Was it true?”

The ghost of smile quirked Yassen’s lips. “Does it matter?”

“Probably not.” Alex settled down in the chair, stuck his bare feet on the bed and picked up the book. “‘Chapter 4. Over Hill and Under Hill. There were many paths that led up into the mountains, and many passes over them. But most of the paths were cheats and deceptions and led nowhere or to bad ends; and most of the passes were infested by evil things and dreadful dangers.’”

“I warned you about MI6,” Yassen said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You sent me to Scorpia.”

“They gave you the skills to survive.”

“They trained me to kill.”

“As your father trained me.”

“Would he be proud of what you’ve become?”

“He taught me to survive.” Yassen coughed again, struggling for breath. “Hunter was the best instructor that Malagosto ever had.”

“He killed for Scorpia.” 

Yassen shook his head even though the movement clearly pained him. “He killed for MI6, to preserve his cover. His kills were never for Scorpia.”

“Semantics. He trained killers for them.” And that was something that neither Blunt nor Jones had been able to deny. His father – John Rider – had trained one of the best assassins in the world, along with numerous other world-class operatives. 

“He set me up to fail my graduation assignment.” The words were hard won, precipitating a coughing fit that made Yassen double over, clutching his chest with one arm whilst groping blindly for the washing up bowl with his other hand. 

Alex grabbed the bowl and stuck it under Yassen’s chin as he spat out bloody phlegm. After wiping the man’s lips with a handful of tissues, Alex cradled Yassen’s head against his bare shoulder and helped him take a few mouthfuls of mint tea to ease his throat.

“You can tell me the rest of that story later.” When he was satisfied Yassen could hold the mug without spilling it, he washed out the bowl and set it down on the bed again. “OK, where were we?” He took a long, slow breath, forcing thoughts of his father out of his head for now and started to read again: “‘The dwarves and the hobbit, helped by the wise advice of Elrond and the knowledge and memory of Gandalf, took the right road to the right pass.’”

Eyes closed, Yassen sipped his drink, listening as Alex continued with the story.

Three hours later, Alex’s voice was as raspy as Yassen’s. The dwarves and a thoroughly unhappy hobbit had left Lake Town behind, their faces turned towards the Lonely Mountain.

Whenever Yassen drifted into sleep, Alex had stopped reading and gone back to dicking around on his phone or his tablet. By unspoken agreement, whenever a racking cough dragged Yassen out of sleep, Alex started reading again. He had no idea if Yassen was enjoying the story or not, but whenever Alex lost his place, the Russian was able to quote the last line back to him.

Alex had known worse ways of passing the time and reading stopped him dwelling too much on thoughts of his father and Scorpia.

There was still so much he wanted to know. But still so much he didn’t dare ask.


	4. Chapter 4

Three days later, Yassen was still coughing, still weak, and still the very disgruntled owner of a very a wonky temperature control. If he’d been a car, he’d have failed his MOT on multiple counts.

The Hobbit had been followed by The Lord of the Rings. By the Monday afternoon of Alex’s quarantine with an extremely ill assassin, the Fellowship had left Rivendell behind and were making their way steadily through Eregion.

Yassen’s breathing difficulties were also as bad as ever, although he was trying to claim that the frequency of the really bad attacks had diminished, Alex wasn’t convinced. He’d fed Yassen chicken soup, tomato soup and had even managed to get some pasta in mushroom sauce down him. Yassen had dutifully done his best to eat and drink whatever Alex put in front of him. Providing he did that, Alex allowed him hot toddies at night to make a change from the mint tea with honey and lemon. When Alex ran out of the necessary ingredients, he unashamedly tapped Smithers up for more, reasoning that if MI6 had got him into this mess, the least they could do was bail him out when he failed to get an online delivery of what he needed, including decent whisky. Very decent whisky.

Alex had to change the bedding every day as a result of the temperature fluctuations that could leave Yassen sweating uncontrollably one minute and then shivering the next. He quickly reached a newfound admiration for all the work Jack had done to keep the Rider household running smoothly and decided that if his washing machine or drier packed up through overuse, he’d send the bill for the repair or replacement to Mrs Jones. 

When necessary, he helped Yassen to the toilet and into the shower, mopped the sweat from his forehead and even massaged the cramp from his calf one night, feeling the muscles jumping and contracting under his fingers as he tried to ignore the strangely intimate nature of the relationship that had grown up between them, while in other ways, they remained as distant from each other as ever.

In return for everything Alex was doing for him, Yassen told the story of how the man he’d known as Hunter had set him up to fail his graduation assignment with Scorpia by giving him a too-short, too-blunt knife and telling him to butcher a man to death. From what Yassen said – and Alex had no reason to disbelieve him – John Rider had done his best to turn him away from Scorpia, but the knowledge that his mentor was living a lie had eventually served to push Yassen into their arms. He’d not betrayed Hunter to them, nor had he been sure whether Scorpia or MI6 had been responsible for the death of the man he’d loved, but without John Rider, Yassen had only seen one direction his life could take, and he’d thrown himself into that life and not looked back. Or so he claimed…

Alex learned more about his father from Yassen than he’d ever learned from Ian. and the fundamental difference was that he trusted Yassen to tell him the truth, even if that truth was sometimes unpalatable.

In return, Yassen accepted Alex’s occasional barbed comments and flashes of temper without protest. He never sought to excuse his actions but nor did he glory in them. Alex had quickly learnt that there was no prospect of engaging the contract killer in any discussion about the morality of his work, but he did get the strong impression that for the past two years, Yassen had taken very few jobs, and that none of the ones he’d accepted had involved lethal force.

The days passed surprisingly quickly. Alex slept very little, constantly alert to the sound of Yassen’s breathing. The packet of earplugs sat on his bedside table, unopened. Every five hours he insisted on Yassen taking painkillers and anti-inflammatories, making sure he washed them down with fizzy water or mint tea, depending on whether he needed warming up or cooling down. 

They settled into a routine and, in a way that he didn’t care to examine too closely, Alex found that he enjoyed the other man’s company. By the time Yassen could talk for more than a few sentences heavily punctuated by coughing fits, he’d seemed content to answer Alex’s questions, and even asked some of his own in return.

“Why did you listen to me when I told you to find Scorpia but not when I told you to leave this life behind?”

Alex squirmed internally under the cool stare that Yassen turned onto him, feeling uncomfortably like a butterfly pinned onto a board by a zealous collector. “I was 14. Not a good age for taking advice from strange adults who’d been trying to kill me.”

“You mean you wouldn’t have come with me to see puppies?”

“You never told me there’d be puppies. That might have made all the difference.”

“So why Scorpia?”

“I was a 14-year-old adrenaline junkie. I hoped they might have some answers. The trouble was I didn’t know what the questions were.”

“And yet you eventually walked away from that life, took your exams and went to university.”

“I lost my youthful looks.”

Yassen reached up and brushed an untidy lock of hair back from Alex’s forehead. The light touch sent an unaccustomed shiver down his spine. “That’s no bad thing.”

“Tomato soup or chicken?” Yassen wasn’t the only one who could change the subject when it suited him.

Yassen looked amused. “Is mushroom an option?”

“Might be.” Alex jumped up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the bed. The sensation of Yassen’s fingertips grazing his skin had left him jittery, unsure whether to lean into the touch or pull back from it. He’d settled for deflection and Yassen clearly knew that.

When he returned with two bowls of mushroom soup, they ate in companionable silence then Alex retreated to the haven of the armchair and went back to the fellowship’s journey through the mines of Moria. 

By the time Gandalf was confronting the balrog, it was obvious that Yassen had drifted from a light, partially aware doze into a deeper sleep. Alex put the book on the floor and settled down to catch up with the news. The various online newspapers were still dancing around with glee about the PM’s U-turn on the A level results, while also taking plenty of time to gloat over the downfall of his closest advisor. Alex hadn’t managed to extract any information from Yassen as to whether he’d planted the evidence or whether Alex had inadvertently done that via Smithers’ flash drive. If it was a stitch up, it was a bloody good one. The damage was irreversible and as a result, what passed for sanity among the current crop of wankpuffins in government had finally prevailed. And if it wasn’t a stitch up, the bastard had deserved outing. Alex couldn’t muster any sympathy for the man. He’d screwed over far too many people’s lives to deserve that. Alex didn’t have any qualms over making that sort of non-lethal moral judgment.

Taking care not to disturb Yassen’s all too fragile hold on sleep, Alex stood up and made his way down to the kitchen. He took the request for mushroom soup as a sign that the man’s appetite was starting to come back and after a week of existing on nothing more than soup and the occasional baked potato, Alex was ready for a change, as well. Smithers had included some extra supplies in with the last delivery of lemons, honey, whisky and painkillers and Alex decided it was time he did something with them.

He’d cooked for himself and his flatmates often enough to know what to do with a chicken, especially when it came in a roasting bag and its own foil tray, so he bunged it in the oven and set the timer. 

He needed a good work out, and if he couldn’t leave the house, he could still make use of the garden. At least now he could leave Yassen alone for a couple of hours without an irrational fear that the bloody man would cough so much that he’d puncture his lung or cough himself sick again and then choke on his own vomit. For someone who had always seemed so composed and in control, being ill had clearly tilted Yassen’s world uncomfortably on its axis, but when Alex had pointed that out, Yassen had just shrugged and muttered something about not getting sick very often.

Throwing on a pair of shorts and teeshirt instead of his light cotton top and jogging pants, Alex went outside to start warming up. Working out in the late afternoon summer sun forced the jitters out of his body, cleared his mind and left him with sweat shining on his skin, his heart hammering in his chest and his hair plastered damply to his head. When the timer went off on the oven, Alex threw a packet of Aunt Bessie’s frozen roast spuds onto a tray and stuck them into the top oven while he turned the bottom one on to keep the chicken warm. He’d have plenty of time to shower and change before chucking some frozen peas into the microwave and rounding his daring culinary act off with some instant gravy. Jamie Oliver could eat his fucking heart out. That classed for cordon bleu in the student flats Alex had inhabited.

As he got to the stop of the stairs, he could hear the shower running in the spare bedroom. Yassen must have been feeling brighter to make it in there by himself. Alex turned to go into his own room when a muffled thud made him break into a run.

He wasn’t surprised to find his houseguest slumped on his arse against the wall of the shower, water streaming down on him as he coughed weakly.

Alex rolled his eyes, feeling like an irritated parent whose kid had taken the stabilisers off a bike and then pitched headfirst into the kerb. “You’re a bloody idiot, what are you?”

Yassen looked up, a flash of rueful humour in his blue eyes. “Remind me again who dislocated my knee?”

“Remind me again who took an assignment when he was down with coronavirus?” Alex pulled off his teeshirt and shoved his shorts off his hips, stepping out of them and into the shower to pull Yassen to his feet.

“You could have left them on. They’re as sweat soaked as you are.”

“Ugh, wet clothes, no thank you. And it’s not like I’ve got anything you’ve not seen before. I;e been undressed by enough homicidal maniacs and their minions not to care any more. Now lean against the wall and pass me the gel. I need a wash and so do you.”

Instead, Yassen obliged by squirting a dollop of shampoo onto Alex’s hair and rubbing it in. He followed that by splashing eucalyptus scented shower gel over Alex’s chest and back, watching with his almost ever-present air of amusement as Alex quickly soaped his armpits and proceeded to get rid of the sweat from his skin and his hair.

“Are you cooking?”

“No, I’m naked in the shower with a Russian assassin who’s just about to scrub my back for me.” That sentence was closely followed by the words _oh fuck_ sounding loudly inside his head as Yassen took hold of the small loofah and proceeded to do exactly that. To take his mind off the delicious scratch against his frighteningly over-sensitive skin, Alex looked over his shoulder and commented. “Your sense of smell must coming back.”

Yassen wrinkled his nose and stared pointedly at Alex’s armpits. “Yes, I do believe it is.”

To Alex’s horror, he felt a blush start to rise up his cheeks and wondered if there was anything in the bathroom he could use to trigger a controlled explosion as a distraction. Hell, he’d even take an uncontrolled explosion, after all, why change the habit of a lifetime? He shouldn’t be blushing just because Yassen was teasing him about the smell of his sweat.

“I’d be in my own bloody shower if you hadn’t tried to do too much, so stop taking the piss and finish scrubbing my back, if that isn’t too much effort, then I’ll go back to slaving over a hot stove just so you can eat something more than soup and pasta.”

Yassen dragged the loofah down his back in one long scrape that set Alex’s nerves on fire. Despite his blasé words to Yassen, it had taken Alex several years to be comfortable being naked around other people, but his two years with the caving club had instilled in him a caver’s casual attitude to nudity and had helped him get over his embarrassment over his scars.

“Roast chicken?”

“Roast chicken, roast potatoes, peas and gravy,” Alex announced proudly, to distract himself from a sudden urge to ask Yassen to scratch the itch on his right shoulder blade.

“Sounds wonderful. And smells it, too.” 

The loofah made its way unerringly to the itchy spot. 

Alex gasped. “I swear you can read minds.”

“I could see your muscle twitching.” Yassen scrubbed harder and Alex very nearly purred in contentment. There were few things more satisfying than having someone else scratch an itch in exactly the right spot. Well, apart from sex, and it was a while since he’d had any of that …

Alex’s cock twitched and he had to fight had to stop himself jumping like a scalded cat. “Thanks. I’d better make sure the spuds aren’t burning.” He stepped away from Yassen and quickly pulled open the sliding door, grabbing a towel to cover any more embarrassment. “Come on, lean on me and let’s get you dried and back to bed before you end up on the floor again.”

“That would be unfortunate,” Yassen acknowledged. “Once was bad enough.”

When Alex finished the cooking, he served up a decent sized portion for himself and plated a smaller amount for Yassen that he took upstairs on a beanbag tray that Jack had bought when he’d been in bed with an absolutely stinker of a cold. 

Yassen ate slowly and methodically, taking the time to compliment Alex on the food. In contrast, Alex polished off his plateful with indecent haste and promptly went back for seconds, earning him another amused look. By the time Alex took their plates downstairs, Yassen had started to shiver again, so the next trip back up to the bedroom involved a large hot toddy, the next round of tablets and a hot water bottle. Yassen accepted them all with grateful thanks.

“You’ve been injured a lot, but you’re not used to being ill.”

“You said that two days ago.”

“I know. And when I said it before, you got evasive and changed the subject. Why?”

“I was a healthy child and I’m now a healthy adult. Apart from this damned virus.”

“Which you’re taking as a personal insult.”

Yassen’s lips quirked into a half smile. “Do you blame me?”

“No, but I will if I catch it.”

“Which you are currently showing no signs of doing, so maybe I should be querying that?”

“Nice try but no dice. Why don’t you get sick?”

“Clean living.”

“You drink.”

“In moderation.”

“Do you know how much whisky goes into those hot toddies you’re so keen on?”

A hacking cough was the only answer he got for several minutes. When he was able to resume sipping from the mug, Yassen met Alex’s eyes and said quietly, “When I was little more than a child, I was injected with something to guard me against a biologically engineered anthrax virus. Since then, I haven’t even had the common cold.”

Alex opened his mouth to ask another question but was forestalled by another bout of coughing. 

When Yassen finally leaned back against the pillows, exhausted, Alex didn’t press the point, instead he picked up the book and started reading again, pushing away thoughts of why the hell someone would have needed to give a kid something like that, or why a drug that kept colds at bay had proved ineffective against a new virus. 

Like everything to do with Yassen Gregorovich, one piece of information led inexorably to a dozen other questions. 

Alex was prepared to bide his time. He was better at the whole patience thing than he had been at 14.

And he hadn’t blown anything up for years.


	5. Chapter 5

A barely suppressed groan dragged Alex out of an uneasy sleep. And for once, the groan hadn’t come out of his own mouth.

He was attuned to the sound of coughing by now and knew when to be concerned and when to let the spasms run their course, but groans were new and Yassen wasn’t the sort of person to vocalise without good reason.

Alex tumbled out of bed and went to investigate.

In the other bedroom, Yassen has hunched over, his face was contorted in pain as he tried, without success, to reach his right calf with both hands.

“Cramp?”

A sharp hiss of indrawn breath was all the answer he got.

Alex swatted his hands away. “Lean back and let me deal with it. You can’t bend forward like that with broken ribs.” 

He ran his hands down Yassen’s leg, feeling the corded muscle tight and hard under his fingers. He started to rub firmly with both hands, digging his thumbs into the knotted muscles, pressing hard until he could feel them start to loosen. In the dim light from the doorway, he could see that Yassen’s kneecap was puffy, but he’d have to deal with that later. For now, he needed to ease the pain from the cramp. As he worked, he could feel Yassen start to relax as the contorted muscles gradually eased. 

Alex kept working on the knots. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to do this sort of work on Yassen’s damaged leg although this time the cramp was more widespread, easing while Alex was working on him but coming back with depressing regularity whenever Yassen tried to move.

“Do you need a piss?”

“Had one half an hour ago.”

“Without collapsing in a heap?”

“Clever, aren’t I?”

Alex lightly slapped Yassen’s naked thigh. “Sarky. Do you want to try walking it off?”

“That would be pushing my luck. I’ll quit while I’m ahead, if you don’t mind.”

“I can cope. Tell me where it hurts. I don’t have your ninja observation skills.”

“Peroneus longus.” The words came out through gritted teeth as another spasm hit Yassen hard.

“And again in English …”

“Outside calf muscle. Didn’t you pay any attention to Dr Three’s anatomy lessons?”

“I tried not to.” Alex went back to kneading the offending muscle until he felt Yassen start to relax for a moment until another sharp hiss told him a problem had started up elsewhere.

“Where now?”

“Same place.”

“Liar.” Alex slid his hands above Yassen’s knee, pushing the quilt aside. He didn’t need Yassen’s uncanny powers of observation to see the outer muscle running the length of the strong thigh contracting painfully under the scarred skin. Alex dug his thumbs in and started work, drawing another sharp hiss. “Shut up, it’s for your own good.”

“Dr Three would be proud of you.”

Alex shuddered. “No more reminders of him, please.” Three’s lessons had been the part of the Malagosto curriculum that Alex had liked the least. The man’s unrivalled academic and practical interest in pain still haunted some of his worst nightmares. 

He dug his thumbs in hard and pushed up in a long sweep along Yassen’s thigh, feeling the leg muscles spasming under his hands. As he worked, he did his best to ignore the proximity of his fingers to Yassen’s groin. Alex dragged his eyes away from the tangle of dark hair that led upwards in a tantalising trail across the flat stomach to the shadowed hollow of Yassen’s belly button. Alex concentrated on the work of his hands and told his traitorous eyes that this was strictly a case of touch, don’t look.

“Where did you learn massage?”

“One of my flatmates is going out with the president of the Massage Soc at uni. She sorts us out after a hard climb or a long caving trip.”

Alex’s hands moved rhythmically over Yassen’s warm skin, feeling the hairs under his fingers, tracing the line of old scars, wanting to ask what had caused them but suspecting their fragile intimacy didn’t stretch that far. He pushed down another equally strong desire to continue the sweep of his fingers over Yassen’s hip bone and to run his fingertips through the curling hair and to touch the long slender cock.

The long slender cock that had now started to harden.

Surprised, Alex glanced up and his breath caught in his throat at the look of naked longing in Yassen’s eyes. He couldn’t remember anyone ever looking at him like that before, as though they’d just offered their heart to him on a silver platter. With all the reckless impulsiveness that had repeatedly landed him in hot water when he’d worked for MI6, Alex rested his right hand on Yassen’s cock and felt it jump under his fingers.

“Alex …” His name fell like a plea from Yassen’s lips.

“If you want me to stop, say so, but otherwise, don’t say anything,” Alex said, more harshly than he’d intended. “Just don’t say anything. And especially don’t bloody well lie to me because of some patronising belief that it’s for my own good. I’m not 14 any more.”

Yassen said nothing. 

Alex watched as every shred of the protective armour Yassen had built up around himself simply fell away. He felt like he was seeing the man for the first time, utterly devoid of any defences and naked in every possible way under Alex’s gaze. Eyes that had stared expressionlessly down the barrel of every kind of lethal weapon the world had to offer were now wide open, beseeching him without words not to stop.

Alex slid his hand up the smooth skin of Yassen’s rapidly filling cock and pulled back the taut foreskin to expose a swollen head glistening with pre-come. Using just the tip of his index finger, he pressed it against the pink slit and then gently circled the tip.

Yassen drew in a sharp breath and promptly convulsed with a bone-deep cough. 

Alex failed to fight down a laugh as he put his hands on Yassen’s shoulders, preventing him from doubling over. “Don’t fight it. Just lie back. You can have some more painkillers if you need them.”

Yassen muttered something in Russian that sounded rude then grimaced as the muscles in his leg contracted again. Alex watched in horrified fascination as the middle two toes on Yassen’s right foot started to cross entirely of their own accord.

“You could have just asked me to stop … no need for the amateur dramatics.” With a grin, Alex turned his attention back to Yassen’s lower leg. “Are you ticklish?”

“Nyet.”

“Good, because a foot in the face often offends.” Alex moved further down the bed and propped Yassen’s slender foot on his thigh as he started work his thumbs as hard as he could into the arch.

Yassen gasped and pushed into Alex’s grip. “Feels good …”

“Better than me stroking your dick?”

“Right now, yes; a minute ago, no.” Yassen coughed again and reached for a pillow to clasp to his chest.

“I really must buy you a teddy bear.”

Despite the pain, laughter danced in Yassen’s eyes. “I’ve never had a teddy bear.”

Alex forced his thumbs into Yassen’s instep, noting the hard skin on the heel and the ball of his foot in contrast to the smoother skin under the arch, and had the satisfaction of seeing the twisted toes start to uncross. Alex had experienced cramp like that a couple of times and knew exactly how excruciating it was. “Be careful what you wish for …” He started to straighten each toe in turn, pulling and rubbing, intoning, “This little piggy went to market …”

Yassen stared at him, confusion clearly written on his handsome face. And just when the fuck had he started to think of Yassen Gregorovich as handsome?

To cover that thought, Alex grinned in triumph. “You need to brush up on your cultural references, sunshine.” He tugged at Yassen’s second toe. “This little piggy stayed at home.” He turned his attention to the next in line, noticing the man’s neatly trimmed nails. “This little piggy ate roast chicken …” The slight jump under the muscles in Yassen’s ankle clued him in to another impending spasm and he promptly diverted his attention to heading it off at the pass before returning to the rhyme Jack had used to tickle a squirming seven-year-old who claimed to be too old for stuff like that. “This little piggy had none.”

“Piggy abuse,” Yassen commented. “There should be better aid for deprived piggies.”

That drew a surprised laugh. “You should do the humour thing more often, it suits you. I’ll spare you the line about the littlest piggy going wee wee wee all the way home in case it makes you want to piss. Will you be OK for a couple of minutes while I get you your tablets and a hot drink for your throat?”

Yassen nodded then asked with an almost boyishly hopeful expression, “Hot whisky?”

“We’re down to the good stuff again. Smithers’ll kill me if he finds out I’ve been feeding it to you loaded with sugar, honey and lemon.”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Alex privately thought there was very little Smithers didn’t know. 

The kitchen clock proclaimed it to be 3.30am. Yassen was definitely overdue for his tablets now. Alex sighed as he warmed two thermos mugs, wondering what the fuck had prompted him to start stroking Yassen’s cock. They were stuck together for at least another week, probably more. Alex really didn’t need any more complications in his life than he’d already acquired isolating with a sick assassin, but the look of bone-deep longing in Yassen’s eyes had shaken him and he knew he wanted to see it again. 

This time, Alex switched on the bedside lamp, turning it to no more than a warm golden glow, the same colour as the hot whisky. 

“I want to see the look in your eyes when you come,” he said calmly once Yassen had successfully swallowed the tablets.

“Alex …”

“You had your chance to say no before. Do you want me to ask you again, just to be sure? But remember, no lies.”

“And no patronising.” 

Alex took a mouthful of the hot whisky and felt the warmth rush to his stomach. Though he said it himself, he did make a hell of a good hot toddy. Mind you, the fifty quid a bottle single malt certainly helped. “Definitely no patronising. I’ll withdraw your whisky privileges if there’s any patronising. Now, where were we?” He shot Yassen’s limp cock an appraising glance and had the satisfaction of seeing it twitch.

“You were stroking my cock.” A slight cough escaped Yassen’s lips and Alex grinned at the look of frustration on the man’s face.

“We’ve got the rest of the night,” Alex said softly, resting his hand on Yassen’s stomach and stroking the thin trail of dark hair.

“We might need it if this fucking cough doesn’t stop.”

“And the cramp. Don’t forget the cramp.”

“Forgetting the cramp seems unlikely.”

Alex ran his hands lightly over the warm skin of Yassen’s chest, circling the scar all too close to the assassin’s heart, trying not to dwell on the memory of the blood that had seeped out between his fingers as he’d tried to keep pressure on the wound and push the life back into the broken body of the man who he thought had died trying to save him. A life for a life, Alex had believed at the time. The scar was in an almost identical position to the one that had nearly ended his own life.

From that scar he moved to another bullet wound in Yassen’s side. A clean in and out through flesh by the look of it. He wanted to know its story but didn’t want to break the mood.

The exploratory fingertips were already having an effect. Yassen’s cock was now very definitely starting to take an interest.

“Drink your whisky,” Alex instructed, pausing to take a mouthful of his own. “It’ll put hairs on your chest.”

“Do I need more?”

“Two out of ten for flirting. Must try harder.” He ran his hand over Yassen’s chest hair. “No, you don’t. If I wanted more hair, I’d adopt something from Battersea Dog’s Home. This is about right. Enough to play with but not too furry.” His questing hand dipped lower again, this time trailing a fingernail over a thin white scar on Yassen’s hip.

“Knife. Panama City,” Yassen offered. “I had to look like I’d been mugged. The idiot misjudged it and cut to the bone.”

Alex resisted the urge to run his tongue over the scar. Yassen still had a slight rabbit-in-the-headlights look and the explanation had the hallmark of Yassen’s habitual deflection when he was feeling emotionally uncomfortable. Alex didn’t want to spook him. Instead, he went back to stroking the now fully erect cock, wondering if this time he’d get further than simply pulling back Yassen’s foreskin and smearing pearly fluid around the head. 

Yassen took a quick gulp of hot whisky, no doubt to stave off another cough. 

With one hand drawing small circles around the flushed head, Alex slowly sipped his own drink and concentrated on slowly, methodically and relentlessly dismantling every single one of Yassen’s remaining defences. Maybe he had learnt something from Dr Three after all. He’d once heard it said that torturers made the best lovers, but that wasn’t a thought he wanted to explore with his hand wrapped around Yassen’s dick.

The way Yassen could go from blank poker face one moment to vulnerable and uncertain the next was deeply intoxicating. Alex didn’t regard himself as particularly experienced in bed. When he’d finally cut ties with MI6, he’d been plagued by nightmares, which hadn’t exactly been conducive to intimacy but his time at university had seen him lose his virginity with a female friend in the caving club at a party (it hadn’t lasted, but they’d parted on good terms) and then he’d gone out with one of the guys in the Krav Maga club for a few months (that hadn’t lasted either, but they still sparred together) and there had been a few other liaisons, none of them long term. And none of them had ever looked at him with the intensity shining in Yassen’s normally ice-cold eyes and it had gone to Alex’s head even more than the whisky.

“Tell me what you like.”

“Preferences can get you killed.” The amused smile on Yassen’s face drew an eye roll from Alex. “But since you ask, what you’re doing is perfect. Although I’m open to further suggestions …”

Alex circled the hard cock with his fingers and proceeded to draw them up and down in long, firm strokes across the silky skin. 

Yassen gasped and bucked up into Alex’s fist.

“If you hurt your ribs and start coughing, I won’t be blamed.”

To Alex’s amusement, Yassen promptly took a large swallow of whisky to soothe his throat.

While lazily delivering a simple but effective hand-job, Alex finished his own drink, feeling a warm rush spreading through his body. He was fully hard now in his loose sleepwear and knew he was leaking as much pre-come as Yassen, but this wasn’t about him or his pleasure. He watched intently as Yassen’s pupils steadily dilated, learning exactly what caused the slight hitches in the other man’s breathing (a slight twist on the upstroke) and what prompted a low moan of satisfaction (cupping Yassen’s balls in his palm and stroking the sensitive skin in the crease of his thigh with his thumb).

Alex had never spent so long just touching anyone like this and watching their reactions. But then he’d never made out with anyone who had two broken ribs, a recently dislocated knee and a bad dose of coronavirus. He was always up for new experiences, but this was weird, even by his standards.

The look on Yassen’s face showed he had a pretty accurate idea of the direction his thoughts had drifted in. “Too weird?”

“Stop doing that mind reading thing. It’s faintly creepy. And no, it’s just weird enough, thank you. Now concentrate on what I’m doing, I want to watch you come.”

His hand twisted again on the upstroke and he swiped his thumb over Yassen’s leaking slit, drawing a gasp followed by the sort of moan that Alex had never imagined he’d hear outside of one of Tom’s porno movies. Slicking his fingers with Yassen’s pre-come, Alex dropped any pretence of taking this slowly and proceeded to work the hard cock with one hand while gently but firmly running his hand over Yassen’s chest and skimming lightly over the pebbled nipples. 

Yassen’s eyelashes fluttered like the wings of a nervous bird, but his eyes never left Alex’s face as his cock pulsed in the encircling fingers, sending ropes of thick come over his stomach. Alex watched as the slight tension drained out of Yassen’s body and the unrestrained pleasure on his face cancelled out long years in a dirty business, giving Alex some idea of what he must have looked like when he’d first joined Scorpia. 

Alex stroked sticky fingers over Yassen’s stomach, hyper-aware of the aftershocks of climax running through the toned muscles. For once in his life, Alex had no desire to make a smartarsed comment as he lost himself in warm eyes that promised the world and held nothing back. 

He knew without needing to be told he’d just experienced the unique sight of Yassen Gregorovich with his defences lowered wholly and willingly. That was not a gift he’d ever expected to receive. And it was not a gift he entirely knew what to do with, but it wasn’t one he felt inclined to reject.

“Will you stay?” Yassen’s voice was as soft as the sound of an owl in flight.

Alex smiled as he reached for a handful of tissues. “If you want me to.” 

He quickly cleaned the come from Yassen’s stomach, wiped his hands and shimmied out of his cotton sleep pants to reveal his own erection. He slid into the other side of the bed, pressed himself up against Yassen’s side and looped an arm around his waist. “Now go to sleep.”

Instead, Yassen’s fingers sought out Alex’s cock under the duvet. “Not just yet.”

Alex felt a bolt of pure pleasure hit him with the force of a lightning strike. To his embarrassment, he came out with the sort of noise he associated with a surprised kitten.

Yassen pushed the duvet down to Alex’s waist and murmured, “Do you object to me watching you come?”

“Seems only fair,” Alex said, resting his head against Yassen’s shoulder and watching with rapt attention as the long, gun callused fingers proceeded to caress him with maddeningly light strokes.

Alex couldn’t remember when anything had last felt this good. As myriad butterflies danced an impromptu jig in his stomach, he stretched out like a cat and allowed himself to hope that Yassen could stave off his next coughing fit and attack of leg cramps for just a little while longer.

Tendrils of pleasure wound their way up his body like swiftly spreading vines, wrapping him from head to foot in warmth and lethargy as he relaxed under Yassen’s touch and let sensation overtake conscious thought.

Yassen seemed to know by instinct what Alex liked, unerringly alternating hard drags with softer, teasing caresses, dipping lower to skim his sensitive balls and to stroke the even more sensitive skin that lay behind them. In the past, touching like this had always been nothing more than often hurried foreplay, but now, as the main event, Alex found himself revelling in the simple pleasure of a hand on his dick that wasn’t at the end of his own arm, and he knew he wasn’t going to last much longer …

The light scrape of nail along his slit set liquid fire alight in his balls as they tightened and a heartbeat later Alex came in a hot rush as a wave of pleasure crashed through him in a climax more intense than anything he’d ever experienced that hadn’t involved a very large and very destructive explosion. 

As he rode the wave, he felt the light brush of Yassen’s lips on his forehead in an almost chase kiss.

“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than your face in that moment,” Yassen murmured. He trailed his fingertips through the pool of come Alex had left on his stomach and brought his fingers to his lips and delicately licked them clean.

Alex’s eyes widened. “Christ on a bike, that’s hotter than it has any right to be.”

The devil danced in Yassen’s eyes as he did it again. “I wanted to taste you.”

Feeling distinctly like he’d missed a trick, Alex grinned. “Be my guest,” he offered, and watched as Yassen proceeded to mop up every drop that Alex had spilled onto him. 

When Yassen had sucked the last drops from his fingertips, Alex pressed a kiss to his shoulder before sliding into a deep and untroubled sleep, only dimly conscious of the duvet being pulled up around his shoulders.


	6. Chapter 6

Yassen woke up to find that he was sharing a bed with the human equivalent of an octopus crossed with a Labrador puppy. 

Alex was fast asleep with his head on Yassen’s chest, an arm over his waist and one leg draped over Yassen’s thigh. Fighting the urge to cough, and ignoring the pressure on his painful ribs, Yassen let the memories of the previous night play on a loop in his head. He couldn’t bring himself to regret what they’d done, and he hoped that Alex would feel the same, but he knew the light of day often brought a host of conflicting feelings.

The mop of spiky blond hair on Yassen’s chest snuggled up to him and warm breath ghosted over his nipples. Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, he was surprised to see that it was now 9.30am and he’d been asleep for over four hours without coughing. To his intense irritation, that thought promptly triggered a painful cough.

Alex stirred and looked up at him in confusion but there was no sign of the rejection Yassen had feared. The long-lashed brown eyes blinked owlishly and a voice thick with sleep said, “Do you need more painkillers?”

“I need a piss,” Yassen said. “Go back to sleep. I can manage.”

“Wake me up if you fall over.”

Yassen ruffled the sleep-tousled hair. “I’m sure I will.”

He slid out of Alex’s grasp and swung his legs of the bed, more than half expecting cramp spasms to drag at his muscles again. When that particular problem failed to materialise, Yassen reached for the neoprene support and strapped up his bad knee before levering himself upright and tentatively putting one foot in front of the other in the direction of the bathroom.

The feeling of satisfaction he got from making it there without doubling over coughing was immense, as was the satisfaction he got from his first piss of the morning. Yassen eyed the shower unit speculatively and decided to risk it. His downfall last time has been to forget the knee support. Getting this one wet would be a small price to pay.

He managed to shower and towel himself dry and slip back into bed while Alex was still hazy with sleep. He promptly wound himself around Yassen again, snuffling approvingly at the scent of the eucalyptus gel. Yassen could feel a morning erection pressing up against his thigh and was tempted to slide his hand between them, but with Alex half asleep, it would have felt too close to transgressing the boundaries of consent and Yassen was not willing to risk what might prove to be a fragile détente. Then Alex moved, lazily rubbing his cock against Yassen’s leg. As a means of signalling consent, it might not stand up in a court of law, but that was the case for the majority of Yassen’s actions.

Sliding his hand between them, he gripped Alex’s cock firmly and held him while Alex bucked up into his fist. From the soft humming noise in Alex’s throat, Yassen divined that his actions met with approval. There was no finesse to it and a few moments later, Alex’s hips stuttered in their rhythm and he spilled over Yassen’s stomach for the second time in 12 hours. Yassen pushed the duvet off them and looked down at the sated expression in Alex’s brown eyes.

“Good?”

Alex snugged even closer. “Very good. Nice way to wake up. Tea?”

“Black tea with honey, please.” Yassen found to his surprise that he was yearning for the simple domesticity of being able to bring this beautiful young man a mug of tea in bed in the morning.

“Sense of taste really is coming back. Smell anything?”

“Eucalyptus and sex.”

“Not sure you get too many points for that. A) It’s the only sort of gel in the bathroom and B) I’ve just come over your stomach.”

Alex sat up and stretched like a cat, giving Yassen an unhindered view of the scars on the smoothly-muscled back, making him want to bring certain people back from the dead and then kill them again – slowly, creatively and painfully, taking in every chapter of Dr Three’s magnum opus on the subject and all the footnotes. 

Burn marks peppered Alex’s shoulders, only slightly darker than the surrounding skin but still a visible reminder that Alex had experienced things as a teen that no child should have to live through. Then there were the thin lines left behind by a whip … Yassen knew that sort of mark all too well – he carried some on his own body, the legacy of Sharkovsky’s more traditional punishments.

Alex turned and shot him a rueful glance. “Not a pretty sight. I’m sorry.”

Yassen reached up and laid his hand on Alex’s back. “Never think that.”

Alex smiled. “You’re remarkably sweet for a world-class assassin.”

Yassen allowed his own smile to reach his eyes. “I’ve killed people for less.” 

Alex’s smile slid into a grin. “I know. Now stop perving my scars. Most of the people I got them from are dead, so you can’t kill them again.” 

Blunt and Jones weren’t, but that wasn’t a conversation he intended to have. “Now who’s doing the creepy mid-reading thing?”

Alex slipped out of bed with fluid grace, tossed Yassen a handful of tissues to clean up the mess he’d left behind, and wandered downstairs, still naked. Yassen reached for the bottle of water by the bed and slaked his thirst, the bubbles in the carbonated water easing the constant soreness in his throat. Based on his first uninterrupted sleep in over a week, Yassen had finally allowed himself to believe that the virus had started to loosen its iron grip, but he still felt weary in a way that he’d rarely encountered. Even the bullet wound that had nearly ended his life hadn’t left him feeling this weak. And in his line of work, weakness was something to be avoided, even though he did class himself as mostly retired now.

He sighed. 

A moment of weakness had almost got him killed many years ago but that was not something Yassen had ever regretted, not even when MI6’s interrogators had been at their most creative. None of them had trained under Dr Three, so they’d never even come close to breaking him, but after three years in their custody on Gibraltar, he’d finally succumbed to boredom and had struck a deal. He’d agreed to work for them unconditionally for two years on the understanding that he would then be a free agent. If the understanding hadn’t been honoured, he’d been quite prepared to kill Blunt, Jones and anyone ill-advised enough to stand in his way. It hadn’t been necessary – yet. The caveat that he should avoid working against MI6’s interests had been more honoured in the breach than the observance. 

“Tea and toast,” Alex announced. “If we get crumbs in bed, I’m changing the sheets later anyway but I might have to swap you for a tidier hitman.”

“You’re very domesticated.”

“Say that again and I’ll invite you to the flat in Bristol. That’ll soon change your mind.”

Alex buttered one slice of toast and loaded the other with marmalade. They split the slices half and half, at the end of which, Yassen decided that his sense of taste was definitely returning. As they finished their drinks, Alex called up the news sites on his tablet, showing Yassen the latest headlines. 

The plan to discredit the PM’s advisor and overturn the A level results fiasco had been a resounding success and although he hadn’t checked, Yassen was certain a large bonus would now be in the process of routing through a series on untraceable offshore accounts. The Russian government wasn’t the most generous of paymasters but that wasn’t always the main consideration when Yassen accepted a job - something he did very rarely these days.

“Were you and my father lovers?”

The question came at him without warning with the force of a Dragunov sniper round. 

Yassen drew in a deep, steadying breath. He should have expected the question, but it had still thrown him off balance. 

“No.”

“Did you want to be?”

“Yes.” When another question wasn’t immediately fired at him, Yassen decided there was nothing to be lost by total honesty. “I was 18. Your father was the first person who had shown me any kindness in several years and I wanted to know what it might be like to enjoy sex with someone.”

“That’s a loaded answer.” The slight softness in tone took the sting out of the words. Alex wasn’t trying to hurt; he was looking for answers.

“I’d spent three years as the slave of a brutal man. Rape was only one of many weapons in his armoury, but it was one he liked to deploy with some frequency. Before that I’d twice sold my body on the streets of Moscow to put food in my belly.”

A warm hand settled on his arm. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. The memories have lost their sting. Alex, your father loved your mother. He would not have cheated on her. I always presumed that was why he arranged to be pulled out of his assignment with Scorpia as Julia Rothman’s attentions were not easily denied.”

“That’s what Blunt and Jones told me.” 

Yassen looked at Alex and saw myriad conflicting feelings swirling in the expressive brown eyes. “In that, I believe they told the truth.”

“Do you see him when you look at me?”

Yassen smiled and ran one finger down Alex’s unshaven cheek. “Yes and no. When I first met him he was several years older than you are now, but in you I see the young man he had been. A young man I never knew. No, Alex, you are not a substitute for your father.”

Alex smiled more shyly than Yassen was used to. “Good, because that would be just …”

“… weird.” 

Alex thumped his arm lightly. “I was going to say fucking weird, but weird is close enough.”

Yassen could see the questions swirling around in Alex’s eyes. He knew he would probably regret his next words, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Ask me what you want to know. All I ask in return is that you keep my answers to yourself.”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

Yassen rolled his eyes. “Firstly, you are a former spy who would have graduated from Malagosto with ease had you stayed with Scorpia. Secondly, we haven’t kissed.”

Alex slowly and deliberately brought Yassen’s hand to his lips and kissed his fingertips, then pressed them to Yassen’s lips. “Will that do?”

Yassen smiled. “While I’m still in danger of coughing into your mouth, yes.”

“Ew, gross.”

“In my defence, ew, covid-19.” 

“What sort of music did my father like?”

That hadn’t been one of the questions Yassen had expected. “Heavy rock from the 1970s. Uriah Heep, Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, Judas Priest. Anything with more than two guitar chords he dismissed as pretentious crap.”

Alex’s face lit up with delight. “I found a Uriah Heep teeshirt at the back of Ian’s wardrobe!”

“The one you were wearing last week. It was your father’s. I mended the rip in the shoulder for him.”

“You can sew?”

“Unless you’ve repaired it since, the evidence would point to a certain skill in that area.” He wasn’t ready to admit it, but the sight of that teeshirt had dulled his reaction time almost as effectively as the damned virus. He’d recognised his own handiwork and that momentary distraction had allowed Alex to get past his defences with a well-timed throat strike.

“What didn’t he like?”

“Jazz. He used to say he preferred being waterboarded. I suspect he might have been serious.”

“What did he like to do when he wasn’t training assassins and terrorists?”

“Working for Scorpia didn’t leave much time for hobbies.”

“He must have liked doing something.”

“Swimming,” Yassen offered after a moment’s thought. “There was a particular cove on Malagosto that he liked but he used to say the Mediterranean was too warm. He once insisted we swam in a lake in Finland. The water was no more than four degrees. He stayed in for 15 minutes. I got out after two to look for my balls. Eventually he taught me to enjoy the sensation of cold water on my skin. Being accustomed to such water saved my life on one occasion in Prague in winter.”

“When we’re out of quarantine, I’ll take you to Hampstead ponds.”

The casual way Alex made the offer set a flutter of something that might have been hope dancing in Yassen’s stomach. “Will I need neoprene trunks?”

“Wimp. It’s summer, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“It’s an English summer. There isn’t usually anything to notice.” A cough bubbled up from Yassen’s lungs and he turned away to grab a tissue to hold to his mouth. The virus wasn’t going to let him off its hook yet. As he coughed, the dull ache in his ribs flared to sharp intensity. 

He felt an arm slide around his shoulders and an apologetic voice said, “Sorry. More tea and fewer questions. I’ll ask you about Prague another time.”

Yassen spent the rest of the day with Alex curled against his side like a particularly affectionate cat. He didn’t object when Yassen gave in to the urge to stroke his hair and Yassen didn’t object when Alex ran his fingertips lightly along the scar on his neck and explored the one on his chest left behind by Damian Cray’s bullet. 

There were still questions, and Yassen was even able to ask some of his own. Alex was reticent about some of his missions and forthcoming on others. In both cases, Yassen’s desire to lock Blunt and Jones in a soundproofed room and test some of Dr Three’s more esoteric methods of exacting retribution as expounded in the numerous appendices in his book didn’t diminish.

Alex made soup for lunch and ordered a pizza delivery for their evening meal. He changed the bedding and threatened to eviscerate Yassen if domesticity was mentioned again. Yassen decided it was wise to take him at his word. When the now customary hot whiskies were brought up to the bedroom, Alex settled down on the bed next to him and started reading from The Lord of the Rings again.

Yassen closed his eyes and let images of a golden wood fill his mind as what remained of the Fellowship sought solace for their loss and let their hurts heal. 

He fell asleep with his head on Alex’s shoulder and when he woke up in the middle of the night shivering even though there was no chill in the air, Alex made him a hot drink, filled a hot water bottle and wrapped a soft fleece around him to supplement the duvet.

Yassen had given up questioning what was happening between them or trying to predict how things might end. He just wanted to let himself enjoy what they had now, without thinking of the future or wishing he could change the past.

As warmth finally seeped back into his aching limbs, he drew Alex’s hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to his palm, then fell asleep still holding his hand.


	7. Chapter 7

_What U up to Alexx?_

_Isolating. I’m fine don’t worry_ he added quickly but he’d barely pressed send on the second part of the WhatsApp message before Jack’s face filled his phone screen with an incoming voice call. 

He snatched the phone up from the work surface. “Hey!”

“You OK?”

“Fine, honest.”

“Alexxx…” She drew his name out the way she’d always done when he’d tried to pull the wool over her eyes as a kid.

“I look fine, don’t I?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve seen you look worse. But you need a proper haircut. Whoever did that one needs a law suit for damages,”

“Oi!”

“OK, you look fine. So why you isolating?”

“Been in contact with someone with the virus. Just a precaution. It’s been a week and I’m fine.”

“Bored?”

“Nah, not yet. Been reading.” 

And looking after the man who’d killed Ian. The man who was currently asleep in what had been Ian’s bed after coughing himself sick at the end of the afternoon.

The tea he’d just finished drinking curdled in Alex’s stomach. He couldn’t tell Jack. He just couldn’t. She wouldn’t understand and he couldn’t expect her to.

Reality hit him with the force of a boot to the guts. He couldn’t tell her. That said it all. He turned away from the phone as bile rose in his throat and he spewed violently into the sink.

“Alex, you said you were OK!”

He coughed, spat and heaved again. What the fucking hell had he been thinking? He’d been so bloody blindsided by learning that Yassen was still alive and then consumed by his desperate desire to learn more about his father that emotion had driven just about everything else out of his head. And then he’d fallen for Yassen. He’d fallen for the man who’d murdered his uncle. And he couldn’t tell Jack. Especially when it didn’t make sense even to him. And if he couldn’t tell the person he’d been closest to for 15 years, what did that say about what he’d been doing?

“Alex, talk to me!”

He pulled off a sheet of kitchen roll and wiped his mouth. “Sorry. Think I had a dodgy takeaway last night.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing. Just something I’ve eaten, h…” Alex bit off the rest of the word _honestly_. There was nothing honest about hiding the fact that he’d spent the last couple of days making out with his uncle’s killer. A man on the wanted list of every intelligence and law enforcement agency in the world, except possibly MI6.

A bout of heavy coughing from upstairs told him that Yassen was awake. Alex’s stomach clenched painfully. He didn’t want Jack to hear the coughing. He couldn’t explain and he didn’t want to tell any more lies. There had been enough of those in his life already.

“Need to go, Jack. I’ll message later, OK? Loo!” So much for no more lies. That resolution had lasted about a microsecond. He made an apologetic grimace and cut the call.

Alex splashed cold water on his face and ran the tap to clear the mess in the sink. The yellow slime circled the plughole and disappeared. He just wished he could deal with the mess his life had become quite so easily.

Upstairs, Yassen’s coughing carried on unabated. 

He’d had a suspicion the previous night that Yassen’s breathing had deteriorated and he’d started to get concerned about the possibility of an infection on top of the virus. And this morning his temperature had been high again.

Alex picked his phone up again and WhatsApped Jack a sticker of disconsolate fox with comically droopy ears. At least that wasn’t a lie.

She replied with a gif of two slugs jumping up and hugging each other.

All the warm feelings of the past week had twisted themselves into cold, writhing snakes in his stomach. A Facebook status of ‘it’s complicated’ didn’t quite do justice to having a contract killer in his spare bedroom. A contract killer that he’d been snuggling up to and reading The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings to. The same contract killer he’d been making hot drinks and meals for and generally tucking up in bed. It’s complicated was definitely a fucking understatement. Quite possibly the fucking understatement of the fucking century.

Alex hauled open the patio door and plonked himself down on the step, hunched over with his head pillowed on his knees as he tried to shut out the sound of Yassen’s wheezing coughs. His head unobligingly played him a showreel with memories of the police bringing the news of Ian’s death running on a loop, interspersed with images of Ian’s funeral. Ian, the man who’d taken him in as a baby and brought him up.

Ian, who’d lied to him all his life and trained him to be a spy.

The snakes in his guts continued to tie themselves in enthusiastic knots. He was glad they were enjoying themselves, because he fucking well wasn’t.

Alex had spent eight years believing Yassen Gregorovitch was dead, that the killer had bled out in his arms. He’d vowed to kill Yassen, but the assassin had given his life for him. Eight years carrying that emotional baggage around with him. Yeah, complicated. Then the man had stepped back into his life and brought another massive construct of lies crashing down around his ears. 

Fuck Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones and their devious fucking minds. 

He couldn’t fucking handle this.

The coughing had finally given way to painful wheezing. Every time Alex had been cautiously optimistic that the virus was losing its hold on Yassen, it had slammed back with a vengeance. 

Alex held out another half an hour before his resolve broke and he turned the kettle on, making a mint tea with honey and lemon and taking it upstairs. Yassen was propped up in bed, shivering and sweating, his eyes heavily lidded and an unpleasant grey tint suffusing his skin. He’d definitely taken a turn for the worse.

He looked up as Alex put the tea down on the bedside table along with a packet of paracetamol. 

“Alex?” Uncertainty clouded Yassen’s eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“You murdered my uncle.” Alex’s voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears.

Uncertainty gave way to confusion. “Alex? What’s happened?”

“Jack just called. I had to lie to her. That’s what’s happened. How the fuck could I tell her that the man who killed Ian in cold blood was upstairs in the bed he used to sleep in? How the fuck could I tell her that I’ve been sleeping in that same bed with a fucking contract killer? How, Yassen? How could I fucking tell her that?” His voice had risen, and Alex didn’t fucking care. It was his house and he’d shout if he wanted to.

“I don’t know,” Yassen said softly. “I can’t answer that.”

The warm light in his eyes that Alex had become so familiar with faded and died and he watched as the all-too-familiar blank expression settled back into place and Yassen’s defences slammed back into place.

Alex turned on his heel and stalked out, fists clenched, not trusting himself to be close to Yassen.

“I’m sorry, Alex. I really am.” Yassen’s words failed to melt the ice that had formed in the pit of Alex’s stomach, even though they were ones he’d never expected to hear.

After pouring himself an unwisely large whisky, Alex slammed into his own bedroom, grabbed his iPod and stuffed the earbuds in, turning up the volume high enough to drown out Yassen’s coughing.

Several restless hours - and two more large whiskies - later, he exchanged the earbuds for the yellow earplugs Smithers had sent him and finally fell asleep.

**** 

The sound of rain hammering against the bedroom window pulled Alex out of a sleep plagued by nightmares. He’d spent most of the night being pursued by giant jellyfish, crocodiles, bulls, snakes and assorted other creatures with a bad attitude and clear grudge against him. To make matters worse, he still felt guilty about the snake.

The silence from down the corridor persisted even after Alex pulled the squishy plugs out of his ears, although the rainstorm got louder, and he heard a rumble of thunder in the distance.

The bedside clock read told him it was 4.50am. 

Memories of the previous evening flooded back. Alex groaned and pulled the duvet over his head. He wanted to stay asleep. Even snakes with an accusing expression were better than trying to disentangle the rest of the shit swirling around in his head. And talking of swirling around, the whisky had turned to acid in his guts and he desperately needed something to drink that didn’t contain alcohol. Drinking on an empty stomach was a bad idea at the best of times, and last night hadn’t been the best of times by a very wide margin.

A bottle of cold fizzy water helped settle his stomach and a couple of paracetamol would help the dull ache in his head. Alex had spent long enough stuffing the tablets down Yassen to acknowledge that they did actually do some good.

Yassen. 

Alex sighed heavily and resisted the desire to punch the wall. He hadn’t heard any coughing in the time he’d been awake, but he had left the man alone for a long time and despite the festering mess of Alex’s feelings, he didn’t want to discover the assassin had coughed himself to death in Alex’s spare room.

The spare room that turned out to be very silent, and very, very empty.

“You fucking idiot!” Alex wasn’t entirely sure whether his words were directed at himself, Yassen, or both of them.

Two minutes later, he’d worked out that Yassen had left with nothing more than the clothes he’d been wearing when they’d first run in to each other. He’d not even taken a bloody anorak, despite the fact that it had clearly been pissing down for hours. Alex presumed Yassen had credit cards, cash passport and everything else the well-prepared hit man needed in the slim belt pouch he’d been wearing, but he hadn’t asked and Yassen hadn’t volunteered the information. His mobile and the ultra slim, ultra fast charger had also gone, and Alex realised he didn’t even know his number.

Alex very much doubted that any taxi driver with half an ounce of self-preservation would have given anyone in Yassen’s state of heath a ride anywhere, but he couldn’t rule it out, and if that was the case, he had sod all chance of finding him again. Alex cursed a blue streak in the air, quickly scrolling through his contacts and punching his finger onto the screen with more force than strictly necessary.

Smithers answered in four rings, sounding concerned. “Alex?”

“Yes, I do know what time it is. I need you to check CCTV in the area and find Yassen.”

“What’s happened, dear boy?”

“The idiot’s buggered off. It’s hammering down out there, and he’s not fit to be out of bed. He’s still coughing his bloody guts up and I think he might have a lung infection. Can you check CCTV and Uber?”

“That wasn’t entirely what I meant but leave it with me.”

Alex grabbed a fleece jacket and his waterproof, pulled on his running shoes and stormed out of the front door. The rain bounced off the pavement and standing water shimmered in the glow of the streetlamps. He had no idea how long Yassen had been gone and whatever he was about to do was almost certainly a fucking fool’s errand. If the world foremost assassin wasn’t capable of vanishing without trace in a capital city, then it was probably time for the man to hang up his sniper rifle and take up stamp collecting. But then this particular assassin had several broken ribs, a buggered knee, a bad dose of Covid-19 and possible pneumonia. The stubborn sod hadn’t even taken the bloody knee brace. Alex was going to fucking kill him when – if – he caught up with him.

Unless Yassen had rented somewhere in London, which didn’t believe to be the case, he would either have to find somewhere to stay locally or leave the country. The chances of any hotel taking in someone in his state in the middle of the night were unlikely, to say the least, and with such obvious symptoms of covid, being allowed on a plane was equally unlikely. That left Eurostar as his best option, but to get to St Pancras from Chelsea would involve a minimum of three buses and would rely on the drivers being willing to take on a covid-spreading passenger. In the middle of the night, he’d stand out like a sore thumb. A wheezing, coughing sore thumb that looked about as healthy as a third-rate scientist’s attempt to regenerate a long dead corpse.

Alex’s phone rang before he had even decided on a direction.

“CCTV picked up what I think was Gregorovich crossing Albert Bridge towards Battersea at 2.34am. I’m trying to track him from there.”

“Thanks, Smithers. Call me if you get anything else.”

“Be careful, dear boy. If Gregorovich doesn’t want to be found …”

“He won’t hurt me.” A heartbeat later, Alex amended that to, “He won’t kill me.”

With his phone still in his hand, Alex started off at a steady pace towards Albert Bridge, the scene of his father’s supposed death at the hands of MI6. He should have guessed Yassen would have taken that route.

Four thousand low energy LED bulbs meant that the bridge could be seen for miles around. At this time of the morning in the middle of a rainstorm there was no one about and only a few cars crossing the river, headlights still on and wipers at full speed. A low growl of thunder from the south was quickly followed by a lightning flash that split the clouds, reinforcing Alex’s concerns. The furthest Yassen had walked in the past week had been to and from the ensuite in the bedroom, and he’d barely reached the stage of managing that unaided. Even getting as far as the bridge must have taken every reserve of strength he possessed.

Alex’s ability to put one foot in front of the other came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the bridge and he stood stock still staring down at the dark water swirling beneath the pillars. What if Yassen hadn’t intended to walk further than the middle of the bridge?

His thumbs flew over his phone screen, WhatsApping Smithers the question _whereabouts on the bridge was he?_

The reply was almost instantaneous. _South side. Picked up again just past the first entrance to the park. Walking - limping, I should say - south._

Relief rushed through Alex in a warm tide and he turned away from the siren call of the Thames and headed south at a fast run.

He was going to find Yassen whether the stupid fucker wanted to be found or not.

He’d figure the rest out later.

Probably.


	8. Chapter 8

Putting one foot in front of the other was getting increasingly difficult. 

Yassen was limping heavily by the time he reached the middle of Albert Bridge, wishing he’d not been too stubborn – and too proud – to take the neoprene knee support with him when he’d left the house. He was already shivering, soaked to the skin, and had been since he’d reached the end of Alex’s quiet, residential road. A cold east wind sent dark clouds scudding across the night sky and raised gooseflesh on his skin as soon as he set foot on the bridge, but that wasn’t the only reason for the cold fist squeezing his heart.

He’d seen this bridge countless times on the surveillance footage held in Scorpia’s archives. The same scene had played out countless more times in his imagination and in the rare times he’d dreamed. He’d believed for many years that MI6 had doubted John Rider’s true loyalties and had simply decided to take no chances. The truth, when he’d finally learned it, had made little difference. Hunter, the only man that Yassen had allowed himself to care about was still dead. Still a double agent. Still the man who’d taught Yassen so much of what he knew, whilst simultaneously trying to turn him away from a life with Scorpia.

Yassen leaned on the painted ironwork of the bridge and stared down at the water. With the state of his ribs and lungs, it would be a quick end, but he’d spent too long staying alive against all the odds to relinquish his hold on life now, simply because he’d lost something – someone – he’d barely even allowed himself to consider getting close to. Attachments were a weakness that anyone in his line of work needed to avoid. Hunter had taught him that.

He stared down at the water and shook his head. Not here, not like this.

He limped on, steadying himself on the bridge, pausing when the need to cough became too great to hold back. The constant dull ache in his ribs turned to sharp spikes of red fire every time a cough burst out of his lungs. Shivering violently, he clutched the rail to prevent his injured knee buckling under him. He wasn’t going to get far like this. He needed shelter and somewhere to rest. He’d had no clear destination in mind when he’d left the house in Chelsea, other than the need to put as much distance between him and Alex Rider as possible. He should have known that the brief interlude of happiness couldn’t last, but he hadn’t expected a simple phone call to bring it all crashing down around them. 

His hopes of finding a bus stop soon evaporated. There was nothing in sight along the road. 

Yassen cursed the absurd impulse that had taken him to see the site of Hunter’s faked death. He should have checked the transport options first. The walk across Albert Bridge had been a bad decision prompted by sentiment rather than analytical reasoning and sentiment was a dangerous luxury. He needed to get to St Pancras station. From there he could catch the Eurostar to Paris. That’s what he should have done as soon as he’d left the house in Chelsea. That was actually what he should have done as soon as he’d done the job he’d been paid to do, instead of letting himself be pulled into Alex Rider’s seductively dangerous orbit.

Yassen pulled out his phone and summoned an Uber, trying to ignore how badly his hand was shaking.

The cab took 15 minutes to arrive. The driver promptly took one look at him and shook his head, driving off quickly even before Yassen could even get a hand on the door. With that driver likely to come up as the closest to his position, Yassen turned to traditional taxi companies. After the third one had turned him down due to his inability to hold even a brief conversation without coughing, he was forced to admit that he was going to have to get to St Pancras by tube. At least that way he wouldn’t have to actually speak to anyone. The other possibility was to steal a car, but that idea could all too easily backfire badly.

But before he could walk any further, he needed to rest.

The park offered his best chance of finding shelter. According to the website he called up on his phone, there were various structures in the large open space, including a band stand, although that was likely to be too open, too obvious, it was also further than he felt capable of walking without a rest but there were trees that might provide some respite from the teeming rain and he could then start to make his way slowly across the park to the nearest tube station.

Negotiating the low iron fence surrounding the park proved absurdly difficult and drew a disapproving look from a lone dog walker dragging a disconsolate spaniel along the footpath. Yassen kept his face turned away from the man and once in the park, he limped over to the closest patch of dense trees and leaned against a spreading chestnut to catch his breath. He was lightheaded from exertion, too tired to think clearly, but as he sank down onto the damp earth, he knew with sickening certainty that he had vastly overestimated his capabilities.

Covid-19 was proving to be the worst enemy Yassen had ever gone up against.

**** 

Alex steadily pounded down Albert Bridge Road, hoping to see someone he could stop and ask, but the street was deserted. He reached the junction with Prince of Wales Drive on the south side of the road without seeing a single person. 

His phone vibrated in his hand. 

Smithers.

“An Uber driver reports refusing a pick-up on Albert Bridge Road at 3.04am. Two taxi firms also refused fares a few minutes later. There may be others, but I suspect Mr Gregorovich was running out of options at that point. The last person I spoke to said she advised him to call an ambulance.”

“Did he?”

“When is life ever that simple, dear boy? And yes, I have checked.”

“What do you think is his best option?”

“Eurostar, if he can get to St Pancras. We are not aware of him having any safe houses in London. During his _arrangement_ with MI6 he preferred low-cost hotels and never used the same one twice.”

As Alex started to run through the available transport option in his mind, Smithers added, “The nearest station to his last known position is Battersea Park and the first train from there is 6.20am. Other than that, there are buses from Battersea Bridge Road. Your Mr Gregorovich has always been a difficult man to predict, Alex. I will keep checking CCTV and monitoring relevant feeds.”

“Thanks, Smithers.”

Alex pushed the anorak hood back and allowed the rain to plaster his hair to his head. He needed to think, not dash around the streets in the vain hope of finding Yassen that way. The contract killer was ill and would have exhausted himself even getting across the bridge. He’d failed to organise transport and in the early hours of the morning there were few people standing around waiting for buses, so someone in Yassen’s condition couldn’t guarantee being allowed to board. His best chance would be to wait for a busier time. And if Yassen intended to rely on public transport, he’d need somewhere to shelter while he waited.

Alex glanced speculatively at the park on his left. Sick and injured, Yassen have been operating mainly on instinct by then. He would do what any sick animal would do; he’d find somewhere to go to ground, even if it was only temporary. Alex abruptly realised he’d be better off checking the park, not the surrounding roads.

He found a gap in the shrubs, vaulted the low fence and started walking quickly, not running. He needed to listen carefully now. The coughing would give Yassen away.

If he was still capable of coughing.

Alex knew Battersea Park like the back of his hand. He’d played there as a child, running first Ian and then Jack ragged around the paths and tracks. He’d climbed trees, spent hours rowing around the boating lake and even got into trouble for swimming out to the islands in the lake a few times until he’d learnt that the best time for a swim was midnight when the park was closed. Ian had turned a blind eye to his nocturnal activities, but Jack had been harder to fool.

The park had been the first place Ian had taken Alex to train his observations skills under the of playing guessing games about the occupations of the various walkers, runners and dog owners. When he got old enough to play out by himself, he’d even taken to following some of the people to their places of work to check the accuracy of his guesses. His surveillance techniques had improved over time, so had his observation skills.

He also practiced his lock-picking skills on the buildings in the park. That hadn’t been something he’d admitted to either Ian or Jack. Speaking of buildings …

Alex started a sweep of the buildings, from the cricket pavilion to the bandstand via the public toilets, then the Pump House Gallery, the boat house, the café and the Peace Pagoda. Even with Smithers’ very effective lock picks, the checks still took longer than he was comfortable with, but at least he didn’t have to go into any of the buildings once he’d got the doors open. The lack of wet footprints told him all he needed to know. 

The search was taking too fucking long. If Yassen wasn’t in any of the buildings or sheltering in any of the open structures in the park, then he had to be somewhere in the trees.

The rain had finally started to slacken off and the sky was gradually lightening. Alex could see people on the pavements outside the park, and a couple of runners had also vaulted the gates and were taking shortcuts, despite the park not officially opening for a couple of hours. Smithers hadn’t rung back, which must mean Yassen hadn’t been picked up on CCTV anywhere, which also made the park the most like place to find him, unless he had managed to catch a bus and was already at St Pancras.

Sod it, he’d just have to keep looking. 

By 7.30am the park was already busy even though the gates wouldn’t open for another half an hour. He’d always felt that if the council were serious about keeping people out, they’d have higher fences.

Alex knew he was missing something obvious. He had to be. He’d tried the buildings with no success. He’d checked all the shelters. He’d walked through the thickest shrubberies and trees. He hadn’t heard a single bloody cough …

And he was a complete fucking idiot!

He turned and started to sprint back towards the first gate. There was no way Yassen could have gone far in his state. Alex had fallen into the trap of overestimating what the man was capable of. He should have concentrated his search much closer to the fence. There was one tree he’d always played in as a kid. A gnarled, double trunked chestnut with widely spreading branches. He’d once eaten a picnic under it in the rain with Jack.

He jumped the low fence by the path, his running shoes squelching on the wet grass as he pushed through the shrubs to get to the chestnut.

“Yassen!”

Alex dropped to his knees on the wet grass. Yassen was curled up on his side at the base of the tree, silent and unmoving. Beneath the dark stubble on his cheeks, the man’s skin was white and cold. Alex pulled him up, feeling for a pulse, relief flooding through him when he felt a soft beat under his fingertips.

“You fucking idiot!” 

Yassen’s eyelashes fluttered on his pale cheeks and a wet cough bubbled up in this throat.

“I’m going to call an ambulance. Hold on …”

“No hospitals …” Yassen rasped.

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“Alex, no, please … “

Alex cursed fluently in three languages, ending with, “You complete fucking arsehole, I thought I’d lost you!” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Smithers, who answered immediately. “I’ve found him. Can you get a car to Battersea Park? Nearest entrance to the bridge, the one with the car park.”

“I’ll text an ETA, dear boy.”

Alex shrugged off his anorak and unzipped his dry fleece. Hauling the wet sweater over Yassen’s head wasn’t easy, neither was dressing him from the waist up, either, but he managed to get his own dry hoodie and fleece onto the man, with the anorak over the top. He sure as hell wasn’t going to take up a career dressing shop window mannequins. He pulled on Yassen’s wet clothes. Fair exchange, and all that crap.

His phone buzzed with an incoming message. _15 minutes_. 

It would take him that bloody long to get Yassen to the carpark.

“If I can’t get you upright, I’m calling a fucking ambulance whether you like it or not.”

All that elicited was a grunt.

Alex rolled his eyes. He stood up, braced himself against the tree and hauled Yassen to his feet. The man’s injured knee promptly gave way.

With one arm around Yassen’s waist, he texted: _Forget the carpark find us on the road_

Alex half-carried, half-dragged Yassen towards the road. Every step was hard won, and the hacking coughs ensured that no one stopped to help, although a woman walking a whippet did offer to call an ambulance. Alex thanked her and said one was on its way.

Three other people muttered about bloody druggies and gave them a wide berth. 

As Alex manoeuvred Yassen onto a bench to give them both a moment’s rest, a smartly dressed man stopped and held out a takeaway mug. “Hot chocolate. It might help. He looks frozen.”

Alex smiled gratefully and fumbled in his pocket for some cash.

The man waved the money away. “Don’t worry. Can I help?”

“Someone’s coming to pick us up,” Alex said. “Thanks a lot.” He held the cardboard cup to Yassen’s lips and was relieved when he managed to take a sip.

“Best of luck.” The man smiled and carried on walking. He fished a business card out of his pocket and held it out. “If you change your mind, phone me. I was down on my luck once and someone helped me. Happy to pay that back if you need it.”

Alex took the card. “Thanks. That’s good of you.”

With Alex’s arm around his shoulders, Yassen managed to drink the hot chocolate. By the time he’d finished, Alex could see Smithers waiting for them on the footpath. He waved off an offer of help from the man and managed to get Yassen to the waiting car, a sleek black Merc with a bulletproof screen between the front and back seats. MI6 pool cars had gone up in the world.

Just beside the pedestrian entrance, a man setting up one of London’s numerous tat stalls stepped aside to give them a wide berth as Alex decanted a coughing Yassen into the back seat and pulled a seatbelt over his chest. As Alex stepped back, he saw a small teddy bear knitted in an improbable combination of purple and yellow stripes roll off the stall into a muddy puddle. The stallholder grimaced and kicked the toy into the gutter.

Alex bent down and picked it up. “May I?”

The man shrugged. “Be my guest, mate.”

Alex shoved the bear into Yassen’s hands. “Don’t say I never give you anything.”

Yassen’s white fingers tightened around the toy as his eyes fell shut.

**** 

“If you die of pneumonia or hypothermia or something in my bath, I’m going to be really fucking annoyed.” 

Alex perched on the side of the bath, holding the grubby, damp teddy bear that he’d finally managed to prise out of Yassen’s fingers just before bundling him into the bath.

“Alex …”

“What the fuck were you thinking of?”

“I killed your uncle.”

“Yes, I know.”

Alex pulled the plug up and let some water out so he could run more hot water into the bath. He’d had to deal with his own borderline hypothermia on several occasions and knew he had to bring Yassen’s core temperature back up gradually. He also needed to get plenty of fluid into him.

An hour later, Yassen was dry, warm, rehydrated and in bed with a hot water bottle on his stomach and the ridiculous teddy bear tucked up in the crook of his arm.

“What are you going to call him?” 

Yassen looked up at him, confused.

Alex nodded at the knitted bear.

Yassen looked even more confused. “You name toys?”

“You’ve really never had one before, have you?”

“Why would I lie about the ownership of teddy bears?”

“You can throw him away, if you want.” Alex stood up. “Forget it. Get some sleep, and don’t even fucking think of running out on me again, not while you’re in this state.” He was about to turn away then realised Yassen’s hold on the knitted toy had tightened.

“I don’t want to throw it – him – away. I’ll call him Misha.” Yassen’s normally flawless English had taken on more than a hint of his country of origin. He held out his hand. “Alex. I have no idea why you came looking for me but thank you.”

Alex squeezed his hand briefly. “You’re an idiot and I’m probably a bigger one. Now shut up and cuddle Misha.”

Exhaustion, illness and pain had once again stripped Yassen of his carefully cultivated defences, leaving behind lacerated nerves and raw, shredded emotion.

“You said you loved me.” The words were out before Alex could stop them. His breath caught in his throat as he waited for the inevitable deflection, doing his best to force down a sharp sting of disappointment that he couldn’t even begin to explain.

“I did,” Yassen said quietly. He reached out and caught Alex’s hand in his again and pressed a soft kiss to his palm. “And I still do. I always have.” 

Alex’s phone made a noise like a quacking duck.

He sat down heavily on the bed, with Yassen still holding his hand.

Jack. Alex’s lips twitched into a smile. Her timing seriously sucked. “Hi Jack.”

“Alex, how’re you doing?”

“I’m … I need to tell you something, Jack.”

“I know. So what’ve you done?”

He tightened his grip on Yassen’s hand. “Promise you won’t be mad at me …?”

“Alexxx …”

Alex sighed. “It’s complicated …”

And he could have sworn that a ridiculous teddy bear called Misha was grinning at him.


End file.
